


A Tale of Bunny and Light; Something Like Solace, and Eternity.

by beauty_love_stardust



Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barebacking, Childhood Trauma, Dark, Dark Past, Darkness, Darkness Around The Heart, Divergent Timelines, Do-Over, Dorks in Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Love, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Healing Sex, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insanity, Kissing, Love, Love Confessions, Lust, Not Canon Compliant, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Please Don't Hate Me, Porn With Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Promises, Psychological Trauma, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Kissing, Sex, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Tender Sex, Tenderness, Trauma, True Love, Underage Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Sex, World of Darkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 09:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25348231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beauty_love_stardust/pseuds/beauty_love_stardust
Summary: What if he did go back up the stairs that night? What if he did take Jeff's advice and go back in there? All Clay's ever wanted is to be with Hannah, and he'll do anything ... anything at all to protect her.Sometimes he's his own worst enemy. His own mind gets muddled, memories scream at him ... and Hannah is there, to make it all go away ...Season 1 AU. Divergent from following seasons.(Bonus Fanvids at the end.)
Relationships: Hannah Baker/Clay Jensen
Comments: 22
Kudos: 22





	A Tale of Bunny and Light; Something Like Solace, and Eternity.

**Author's Note:**

> _So, I have worked on this off and on since I finished binge-watching the final season. This is basically a fix-it, alternate sort of take on Clay and Hannah's potential relationship, had Clay gone back for Hannah, the night of Jessica's party. It doesn't follow anything post season-one, I only went off of things in season one. I may at some point in time, decide to revisit this work, but there is no guarantee. For now, I am considering this fiction, completed. I may add in a second part at some point in the future if the inspiration calls. But I feel like I've resolved enough, to end it where it's ended! I hope you all enjoy it! Tell me what you think, below!_
> 
> _  
> **UPDATE: Someone told me I should add some of my fanvids into my works! I never thought of it, before! So, at the end of this work, there is two bonus fanvids I made, right after the final season aired! The second is one I made more recently! Enjoy, lovelies!**  
> _

**_A Tale of Bunny and Light; Something Like Solace, and Eternity._ **

* * *

_I buried how much I love you._

_Buried to the very bottom_

_of my heart._

_But it’s still there_

_Digging its way back_

_to the surface._

_Suffocating my every breath._

* * *

i. r _ejection & second chances._

It was a lot, that he’d invited Hannah to a party. A lot, that he’d actually dressed himself and showed **_up_** to a high school party.

He wasn’t popular and Jess’s face when he’d initially showed up, had been quite enough to remind him of his _ineptitude_. Jeff told him to be there, to be _adventurous_ , so he was there.

But despite what he knew about himself, about his lack of communicative abilities and popularity, he’d shown up anyway.

And he’d thought it was going well … it **_was_** going well, **_wasn’t it?_**

Hannah had flashed him her trademark smile, conversed with him while seemingly at ease, and he’d have only talked to her, all night, if that’s what she asked – if that’s all she **_wanted_**.

But she’d looked at him like he hung her moon, and she’d _flirted_ with him when he _flirted_ with her, but maybe it was all wrong, _somehow_.

Had it all been _twisted_? Was _he_ twisted?

His skin had burned when they connected in a sweep of longful kisses. Clay had been in love with Hannah, from the moment he first laid eyes on her at the Crestmont. He’d dreamed of kissing her, since he found out Justin had … and there was always such a potent divide in him, about how to go about pursuing her.

In that moment, he’d _believed_ Hannah might care for him – might **_love_** him.

She’d kissed him with this eagerness he’d never known before – but he’d also never experienced _kisses_ before, either.

Hannah was his _first_ kiss, the first person he loved with his whole heart and when he pictured himself actually _hurting_ her … it struck an ugly chord, skin-deep.

He replayed the images in his mind. He replayed his hands stroking, ambling over her skin, feeling through her shirt and bra. He’d _wanted_ to tear her clothes off, just as quickly as he’d torn his shirt overhead. Now, he wondered if _that_ had been part of the problem – his _eagerness_ to be with her.

He was _horny_ , and a _virgin_ , and _too_ **_rough_**.

Had he _scared_ her? Had he _moved_ too fast?

Or was it that she felt the brush of his hardness, through his pants, against her thigh? Had that freaked her out? Had she not wanted to go **_that_** far?

She’d **_said_** it was okay – but then it suddenly _wasn’t_ …

And she’d pushed at him, at his _chest_ , at his _shoulders_ , anything to get him _off_ of her – like his touch was _poison_ – like he’d crossed some kind of proverbial line drawn in the sand.

He’d been embarrassed, he **_still_** is, and he’d tried to reach for her, tried to brush her cheek and apologize, but she’d _slapped_ his hand away.

Clay couldn’t stop the replays of that moment, over and over. He’d wanted to be _gentle_ with her, he’d wanted to take it slow if that’s what she wanted, too … He’d heard all the rumors about her, but he didn’t put any stock in most of them.

He hadn’t pursued her _just_ to be intimate with her, he’d done it for _love_. Because he actually _believed_ in love …

It was such a girl thing to believe in – _love_ … _romance_ …

He wasn’t any good at being around girls, not _even_ Hannah. And he understood that, in that moment.

Because she’d been sobbing – _actually_ _sobbing_ – and she probably still is upstairs … and he couldn’t stop her. He couldn’t hold her like his body _screamed_ for him to, because she’d pushed him away.

He’d wanted to apologize in the moment and earn her forgiveness, for whatever, wretched thing he’d done. Tell her, they didn’t have to go so far, if she didn’t want to and laid down to cuddle with her instead. His erections weren’t **_ever_** under his control, but he wouldn’t have _forced_ her … She had to know _that_ at least … _didn’t she?_

He would have put his shirt back on and just held her, if that was all she _needed_ – but she didn’t **_let_** him.

He’s spent a good ten minutes, replaying those same few seconds, over and over again. It is **_a lot_** , but his mind is essentially still deadlocked in panic-mode.

Worst of all he can still feel the _weight_ of his erection, hot and unsatisfied in his crotch – and despite how he’s breathing, trying to get it to go away, and everything that’s _happened_ , it won’t. His body is being fucking stubborn.

Jeff is suddenly in front of him – and he doesn’t know when Jeff even appeared or how _long_ he’s been there, but the sentiment he gives is clear – _go back in there_.

He isn’t taking _no_ for an answer.

And Clay’s stomach is in knots. He feels like he might _actually_ lose his mind. Because Hannah doesn’t _love_ him and she probably **_hates_** him now, for _whatever_ he’s done, and he doesn’t want to own up to that – doesn’t want to _face_ it.

Because he already _tried_ to face it, once tonight, and Hannah gave him this broken, wounded look that made him want to die on the spot. And he didn’t know how to entertain so much as the **_idea_** of going about it, again.

How he could _touch_ her … or even _talk_ to her, again …

But he finds his legs carrying him up the stairs, _anyway_. He listens to the creaks on every tiny step and closes his mind, develops this wall that will defend against his emotions, because it’s all he **_can_** do.

He knows in his heart that Jeff is _right_ , whatever happened, he won’t be right with himself if he leaves her in a sobbing mess on Jess’s bed.

He’s made it to the door, and finds it closed, which is how he left it, but realizes the light is now _off_. He’s about to turn the nob, just to make sure that Hannah’s not **_still_** in there, when it creaks open and Hannah stumbles out – and **_into_** him.

She sways on her feet and Clay’s mouth falls open, because he’s so stunned by her sudden appearance in front of him that he almost can’t _breathe_. He’s set to panic, because what if she goes off on him for coming _back_? What if their friendship is really _over_ and he’s wrecked everything, because he’s such a fucking _loser_? And he’s still hard in his fucking pants like a fucking _asshole_ , but he can’t help it because he’s anxious and he tends to have erections when he’s _this_ anxious – and he’s prepared for Hannah to notice and _slap_ him, or _hate_ him … or **_yell_** at him again, and maybe this is just his mind on overload, maybe he’s finally snapped, _completely_ – maybe he’s just too fucked-up to be good enough for Hannah.

All of this and about a dozen other _abject_ thoughts converge on his psyche at once, and he’s about to fall into a complete meltdown, but then he sees the _look_ on her face – _in her eyes_.

“C-Clay …” her voice breaks in a choked-sob and she’s tumbling forward, into his arms, before he can even _think_ to catch her.

And somehow – _somehow_ , he manages to curl his arms around her before she can actually wind up on the _ground_ , once he’s worked his way through the first few nanoseconds of his shock.

“Hannah … I’m sorry … I fucked everything up, and I’m _so_ sorry …” he has the words out before he can even think about stopping himself.

But Hannah is literally trembling so hard right now, he feels his bones vibrate and his blood circulates with a winding rush through his veins with the sudden rise in his heartbeat.

Hannah sobs like he’s never heard _anyone_ sob before. And she’s clinging to him like he’s a floaty in the pool and she might drown if she _doesn’t_ , and Clay wants to kiss her and tell her it’s _okay_. That he’s so _fucking_ sorry for whatever he did, and that he won’t _ever_ do it again … whatever **_it_** is … but he doesn’t dare, because she’s so upset _already_ , and he doesn’t want to make it all _worse_ , somehow …

“I can’t b-be _here_ … C-Clay … I don’t _w-wanna_ b-be **_here_** …” she is frantic with her words, and there is this wounded plea in her azure eyes.

Did he really hurt her **_that_** much? He wonders, now, what _he_ did … or why she would say that?

What did _their_ kissing, and _this_ house, have to do with why she’s sobbing so hard right now?

Clay swipes her tears, but their falling too fast for him to catch them all.

He nods his agreement, even though he has no fucking idea the why _behind_ why she wants out of Jess’s house so desperately.

“Okay, okay,” he rubs her back and feels her shiver in his arms, “Do you want me to walk you home?” it registers in his mind somewhere, that he didn’t bring his bike along with him, tonight.

He walked here and had always planned on walking himself home. 

Hannah shakes her head ‘ _no’_ at him, with more sobs coming from her lips.

“I-I’m drunk … if my p-parents s-see …” she doesn’t finish that sentence, but the implication is enough, “… And I-I’m too d-drunk to _walk_ …”

He notices for the first time; just how drunk she _actually_ is. There’s this reddish puff under her eyes, that’s partially concealed by her running eyeliner. She’s leaned against him in just the right angle for him to support and keep her upright. His stomach sinks into the lowest pit of despair, as it slowly registers that he’d been about to **_sleep_** with her, while she was _like_ this … He thinks to himself that he really **_is_** a piece of shit … no _wonder_ she pushed him away.

He decides he’s wronged her enough for one night. In this moment, he comes to the conclusion that the only thing to be done is to find them a ride to his house. He’ll sleep on the floor if he has to, so she can sleep the alcohol off.

He owes her that much, for being so _fucking_ inconsiderate in the first place.

Clay is still troubled by Hannah’s tears, though. They seem so shattered and broken. It’s like something isn’t _right_ in them, but he can’t for the life of him decipher what that is. The tears are different than those he left her with, earlier. They’re **_worse_** , somehow.

“Do you want to come back to my house?” he offers, with a few more swipes of his thumbs, “I can sleep on the floor,” he quickly adds in not wanting her to get the _wrong_ idea. He wants her to understand he’s not gonna make the same mistake **_twice_** in a single night.

He desperately wants to comfort her – longs to _kiss_ her still swollen lips, but he knows what his touch is capable of now. He can still see Hannah’s tearful, angered expression when she looked at him, earlier. And he _never_ wants her to look at him that way again.

Right now, she’s looking at him with this unreadable expression, but he thinks that it might be _pain_ – possibly something **_worse_** , but whatever it is Clay feels a stab of sympathy in his heart because of it.

She finally gives him a slight nod of her head, with her sobs finally beginning to die down.

“Okay, I’m just going to go see who can give us a ride, I’ll be right back, okay?” he starts to turn away, but Hannah has other plans.

“H-Helmet …” she reaches for his hand and grips it tight, like she’s afraid he’ll disappear if she _doesn’t_ latch on.

That nickname of endearment sends chills cascading everywhere, simultaneously. His gut lodges with need and his skin _prickles_ with fire he has no right to feel – but it also halts him in his tracks. He stares down at their interconnected hands and he can’t help the way his stomach flips around at the physical contact.

“Don’t _leave_ m-me …” she’s starting to cry again; he can see her on the verge of a breakdown and he feels so useless in the face of it.

His chest is beginning to feel tight with emotion, and he decides on the spot that he has to help Hannah, whatever way he can. And lastly, he’s glad he came back – because she **_needs_** him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Hannah,” he reassures her, with a squeeze of his hand.

He sees relief in her eyes, which is a poignant contrast to the hurt and anger he saw reflected at him less than twenty minutes ago, when he fled Jess’s bedroom.

She nods in acknowledgement and he guides her slowly down the stairs. He’s afraid to touch more than her hand, but then she’s leaned into him of her own accord, so he unlinks their hands and winds his arm around her shoulder instead to offer better support.

It takes ten minutes of asking around for Clay to finally secure them a ride. He doesn’t even know the guy, not really, he’s from the baseball team. But he seems nice enough and he needs to get Hannah to his house, before she passes out.

She’s been wobbling on her feet and devoid of speech since he _found_ her. But there’s that lingering voice in his head that keeps telling him that her silence and tears are about something worse than whatever **_he_** did to her.

He can’t help but wonder why the light was off in Jess’s bedroom. And why (when he caught a quick glimpse inside) was Jess seemingly passed out on her bed? Had Jess said something to her? He wonders all of this on the drive over to his house.

Hannah’s still a ghost. But she’s a ghost that hasn’t let go of his hand, arm, or **_him_** _in general_ , since he went back upstairs to find her.

Clay remembers to thank the boy that provided them a ride, before he guides Hannah up his porch steps and into his house. Thankfully, it appears that his parents have already retired for the night, because the inside is dark and the lights are all switched off.

Hannah seems to have sobered a bit on the car ride over, but she’s still tipsy enough to need basic help maneuvering up the stairs.

When they finally make it to his bedroom, he secures the door behind them and walks her to the edge of his bed, where she plops down, and sends them both tumbling down onto the mattress below. Clay gasps when he feels his skin flush against Hannah’s and burns with immediate shame when he finds he is erect **_again_** in seconds. He’d **_finally_** managed to get his cock under control and now he’s straight back to square one.

Hannah _notices_.

He sees it in the way her eyes flick down between them. There’s a line that furrows just in the middle of her forehead, but she doesn’t appear upset. There’s something hidden there, but he still can’t decipher **_what_** , or why it’s there.

Clay sits up and scoots a few inches away from her, before burying his head in his hands.

He is trying to make her _comfortable_ , he doesn’t want to send her back to where they were earlier. That’s the last thing he wants right now.

“I’m _sorry_ , Hannah … I’m **_so_** fucking sorry …” he chokes on his sobs. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this right now. Especially since she’s drunk. She might not even remember it, come sunrise.

He feels the bedsprings shift as Hannah moves to sit upright.

“Clay … It wasn’t …” she stops herself just as she’s about to touch his shoulder.

He watches as her hand draws back away.

Like she might be **_burned_** if she touches him, despite how many times she’s touched him before. This is _different_ – and maybe he feels it, too.

Is she trying _not_ to touch him anymore, so she won’t _arouse_ him more than he already **_is_**? Or is she just _now_ realizing that she’s **_been_** touching him the **_whole_** way home?

Like they _belong_ together … She touched him the way **_couples_** touch …

“Wasn’t _what_ , Hannah?” he asks, with a solemnness in his eyes and in his voice, “Won’t you tell me what I did wrong?”

It is going to eat at him all night. Probably until he’s driven himself past the brink of insanity, because all he can think about is how much he _loves_ Hannah. And how he never wants to see her in **_any_** type of pain … but apparently something he did actually _caused_ her pain – and that’s more than he can handle.

Clay searches her eyes and sees something dark flicker behind them – it _smothers_ her light. He hears a catch in her breath and sees her eyes fill again, with tears.

“Nothing … you didn’t do _anything_ ,” Hannah says and he finds himself more baffled by the words.

Because if he didn’t **_physically_** do anything to her, then that means she just doesn’t love him **_back_**. And that cuts him deeper than anything physical he could have done to cause what happened. Because an action could be fixed, but emotions … those were unamendable.

Clay burns with embarrassment and he feels like his cheeks might literally catch on fire. He wants her to elaborate, but at the same time, he really **_doesn’t_** … Because _if_ she elaborates, that makes it all real, somehow. It makes him _not_ her type … he was **_never_** her type …

“You just don’t …” Clay takes a massive lungful of air, “… just _don’t_ —” he can’t say the rest, because his brain starts to shut down on him, “—never mind. I’m just a fucking _idiot_ anyway … I’m sorry Hannah …”

He feels like there is a million little fire ants prickling under his skin. Like it’s hot and cold and the heat is ready to strip him and the cold is ready to blister him. And he needs to stand up, because he needs to make distance between them, before he loses his _fucking_ mind.

Because he no longer knows what tonight **_was_** – or what it meant … Or why he _thought_ it meant something that it wasn’t.

It’s just **_all_** fucked up.

 _He’s_ all fucked up.

And his fucking cock is _still_ hard and that’s really fucking pissing him off, beyond belief.

“ _Clay_ …” Hannah’s watching him when he looks up next and he realizes he’s on his knees, on the floor – midway across the room – and clutching at his head like a fucking _lunatic_.

He lowers his hands, lets them rest on the carpet, and idly looks up at Hannah, with her pretty blue eyes which mirror his, that appear so splintered with sadness.

“Just tell me **_one_** thing, Hannah …” Clay whispers, before his mind can stop his mouth.

She tilts her head at him, wonders what he’s wondering about. She probably wonders why he’s on his knees, on the floor in the first fucking place. He wouldn’t tell her if she asked, but it’s because the very idea of her not loving him back has brought him _to_ this low point – to his **_knees_** – because she’s all he’s ever dreamed of … all he’s ever **_loved_** … and if she doesn’t love him, too, then that’s the worst thing he can imagine … that’s as **_bad_** as it can get …

“Is it just _me_ …? Am **_I_** just … not good enough?” he asks, caught up in the somberness of the moment.

It’s his skin and his bones – it’s _all_ of him.

He wants to not feel like this, all the time. And he wants to do _better_ for Hannah – be a good friend to her …

What Clay sees reflected back at him in Hannah’s eyes, isn’t disgust, though. It isn’t, hate or anger … it’s this **_pain_** … it’s this indescribable **_pain_** …

“Clay … come here …” Hannah reaches her hand out towards him and he’s drawn to it – he’s drawn to **_her_**.

His legs obey, before his mind can even catch up. And he’s back across the room and huddled alongside her on the bed, before he can register what he’s doing.

Hannah links their fingers and he _feels_ her – warm and **_real_** – against him.

“I’m not _good_ … Clay … I’m not … not **_right_** …” her voice cracks and her eyes avoid his, as she says it. And he feels so much for her – so _deep_.

Clay feels her relinquish her grip on his hand, and he lets her, but reaches over with his other to turn her face toward his – because he wants to see her eyes …

“ _Hannah_ …”

She sniffles and jerks her cheek away, and he retreats, afraid again that she might _yell_ at him – might lash _out_ at him …

“ ** _Don’t_** , Clay … Please … don’t … don’t **_try_** … okay?” she wipes her tears and shakes her head.

Clay knows he’s no good at saying anything. Every time he’s tried before it always becomes this muddled mass of words that make little sense to him, or anyone, and he usually says something hurtful in the process. He knows this – he **_knows_** … But it’s **_Hannah_** , and she’s **_crying_** – **_he_** made her cry … and he isn’t okay with that – he’s not okay with what he’s _done_ to her.

“Hannah I—” he knows what he’s going to say and there isn’t anything that can stop him, not even his own petrifying fear, “—I’m in _love_ with you.”

He rushes out those words, leaves them out in the open, bare and raw – like his _ache_ – and he’s terrified and disbelieving that he’s actually gone and done it – but he _has_.

There is no way for him to turn **_back_** now …

He waits for a long time for her to say something – **_anything_**.

But she _doesn’t_ say anything …

She just stares at him through these glossy eyes as though frozen and speechless all at once.

“I-I’ve wanted to kiss you … well … since that first night at your party and I’ve been in love with you … since I looked up at the stars with you on top of the Crestmont, and I don’t think I ever saw _anyone_ so beautiful as you, before … And I know you _can’t_ love me back … I get that now … I **_do_** … but I had to tell you because I feel like I’m suffocating under the weight of loving you and you not knowing … and I can’t _breathe_ sometimes … and Hannah … _fuck_ … I’m probably making this **_worse_** … but if I didn’t hurt you tonight, I wish you would tell me what **_did_** … because … because I _care_ , Hannah, I really fucking **_care_** and I’ll be friends with you … _just_ friends … _forever_ … and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all of this _before_ … but I’m fucking useless … I know I am … and I’m _sorry_ , Hannah … I’m **_so_** fucking sorry …” once one thing tumbled out, he found it _all_ was.

Complete word vomit.

With sentences that don’t really connect and thoughts that aren’t really relevant to anything, but he is so nervous … because she isn’t saying anything and he needs to do something to fill the lingering void between them.

Anything to do away with the emptiness and the sting of loving someone that isn’t capable of loving him in return.

She still doesn’t speak, not even to comment on his spilled-out words, or the way he just poured his heart out to her.

It is just, **_silent_**.

The only indication she is even alive is the sound of her breathing.

She kicks off her shoes, now, sheds her jacket and pushes under the covers of his bed.

And she is looking up at him with those same, somber eyes as before, in an almost plea for him to _do_ something. But he doesn’t _understand_ the hint.

He is clueless as to _what_ she wants.

Finally, she does break the silence.

“Just _hold_ _me_ , Helmet,” she sighs and wipes a few stray tears from the base of her cheeks, “Don’t sleep on the floor …”

Clay’s heart beats a tattoo in his chest, while he marvels at her trust in him. She is _drunk_ … he could take advantage if he **_wants_** to … He still has the aching cock to prove his want and _need_ for her … but the trust she is extending him, means that she knows he’d **_never_** take advantage that way.

He would never **_purposefully_** hurt her.

Clay slips off his own shoes and shoves down his jeans, leaving his shirt and boxers in place, before he clumsily crawls under the covers with her, careful not to either elbow or prod her with his knees.

She waits till he’s settled then pushes back into his front, and he snakes his arm around her middle, loosely.

He was afraid to move, possibly even to breathe too hard. Clay doesn’t want a repeat of earlier. He _never_ wants that, again.

“I’m sorry, Hannah … for _everything_ …” he rasps out in a hoarse voice.

She breathes a heavy sigh and whispers back, “I know, Clay. But you _shouldn’t_ be.”

He is shocked when she laces her fingers through his, touches her thumb to the back of his hand. He even squirms a bit, and releases a few quaky breaths, trying to steady his heartbeat and deflate his erection. Hannah’s slight squirmy movements aren’t especially _helping_ the process along, however.

Clay tenses up and makes little cut-off keens every few seconds. Trying not to alert her to the stimulation she’s providing him. Rather, he’s ignoring her movements, willing himself to simply fall to sleep.

“Clay?” Hannah again breaks the silence and he freezes in place.

“Huh?” he breathes out.

“If you … if you need to go to the _bathroom_ … to take **_care_** of _it_ , it’s okay, Clay …” her voice is shaking while she says it and he tries not to pant in her ear from lust.

Had she been facing him right now; she’d see just how red his cheeks are – how inflamed his entire _face_ is.

He _knows_ what she means. Of course, he does. It can’t be too terribly comfortable to have his aching need plodding her in the **_back_** , but he’s too ashamed right now to go _‘take care’_ of it.

His thoughts would be on her and right now that doesn’t _feel_ right.

He’s masturbated so many times before, but it’s usually in this room, at his desk, with a bottle of lotion, and the picture that had gone around school a while back, of two females kissing, to rub off to. Usually he imagines it’s _Hannah_ in the picture. Imagines that she’s **_with_** him, in a threesome. It’s not all that farfetched, if he considers the rumors that fly around school about her.

He doesn’t put stock in _all_ of them … but a **_few_** … he feels jealousy pump through his veins when he imagines Justin with his hand between her thighs on the slide at Eisenhower Park. He wonders what it would feel like to touch her _there_ … to finger her, the way Justin _supposedly_ did … He pushes the dirty, lingering thoughts away, because he’s tired of being jealous of Justin and all the other guys Hannah would rather have, over _him_.

It’s _pathetic_ , but it doesn’t usually take much to get him off. He’s horny **_all_** the time. It comes with the unfortunate territory of being virginal and a teenage boy with raging, desperately out of control, hormones. It would only take a few rough jerks and he’d spend over his fingers, but he doesn’t want Hannah to think he’s _incapable_ of sleeping in a bed with her, without needing to _‘take care’_ of himself, beforehand.

It’s embarrassing enough that she rejected him, he doesn’t want her to think any less of him for needing to alleviate the pressure in his bathroom. He’d _never_ live that down.

What if she _told_ someone?

Would she **_do_** that to him?

He realizes that he’s actually **_most_** embarrassed for _her_ to think that just their passionately heated kisses put him in this state. It’s been over an _hour_ , probably **_two_** , since they kissed at the party and for her to think he’s so pathetic … so turned on by a routine make-out session that he can’t get his _erection_ to go away? That’s downright _humiliating_.

He realizes he’s spiraling … _again_ … and hasn’t responded to her …

“It’s okay, I … I tend to get them when I’m … _anxious_ …” he stumbles over the sentence, compulsively, “… It’ll go away on its _own_ …” at least he prayed to a merciful God that it would.

“I’m _sorry_ …” he doesn’t know why **_she’s_** apologizing.

Is it for their failed hook-up that put him in this state? Or the fact that she apparently isn’t capable of loving him back? He can never _tell_ with Hannah. He can never tell what she’s _thinking_ which is the entire problem, between them.

“It’s not _your_ fault … I’m _just_ fucked-up, Hannah …” he sighs out, defeatedly.

He imagines that Justin’s never been _this_ humiliated in front of a girl. And he has to stop himself **_again_** , from going there, or else he’ll **_never_** escape this shadow of guilt and shame.

Hannah didn’t try to say anything to _that_ , or at all, **_again_**.

She falls silent and eventually _stops_ shifting her body.

He wonders if she’s fallen asleep, but he doesn’t _check_ , he keeps his arm plastered to her middle, their fingers intertwined, instead, eventually, he finds a way to stop worrying about **_everything_** that happened, and catch his own shuteye.

And sometime into his _sleep_ , he starts to **_dream_** about Hannah.

* * *

_ii. after’s & mistakes._

Birds outside make little high-pitched sounds and wake him out of a _dead_ sleep.

There is an unfamiliar fragrance scrunched up close to him and he catches a whiff before he recognizes the flowery, vanilla bath lotion, scent, as Hannah’s.

It’s mixed with alcohol and faint traces of weed, from the party … but she’s still _here_.

She’s shifted while they slept and is now facing him, pushed into his front, with her breath soft on his neck. Clay briefly wonders how she can even _breathe_ , but she **_is_** , and she doesn’t seem the least bit disturbed by their close proximity to one another.

It takes another second for him to realize what, _exactly_ , has woken him. It’s the moist squish of his erection in his boxers. He chances a glance down and sees the mess he’s made of both _his_ boxers and _Hannah’s_ maroon dress.

It’s visible, the soaked patch of his seed, and he tries urgently to remember his dream.

Hannah was in it, he thinks he was on _top_ of her and they were kissing. He knows, now, that he should have gone to the bathroom, like she told him to, last night … and he _loathes_ that his pride got in the way, because there’s no way he can untangle himself from her, without waking her in the process … and the second she wakes up she’s going to _know_ … she’s going to **_feel_** what he’s done … and he is starting to panic, because she’s going to think he’s done it on _purpose_.

He hasn’t had a nocturnal emission in weeks. He keeps them at bay by masturbating, sometimes more than once a day. But he didn’t touch himself at _all_ yesterday, and after that _extremely_ heated make-out session between them …

Clay shifts uncomfortably beside Hannah. She’s pushed one of her legs between his thighs and has it pressed right up against where his erection is, which is how he managed to spill all over **_her_** dress in the first place. He must have humped against her, while he slept.

Even though he _clearly_ got off, at some point … he’s also, somehow managed to still wake with his **_usual_** morning wood. His body is un-fucking- ** _believable_**.

He’s starting to shift, trying to detach himself from Hannah, as carefully as possible in order to avoid the inevitable humiliation of Hannah waking to find them in such a _compromising_ position … but just a few movements from him, has Hannah opening her eyes.

“ _Helmet_ …” her voice is groggy and she retracts her face from the side of his neck. He watches while she rubs the traces of sleep from her eyes, internally panicking all the while.

He wants to climb off the bed and hide out in the bathroom. He wants to tell her to go back to sleep … that he’s going to shower … but he has absolutely no way of **_hiding_** the stain on her dress.

No matter _what_ he does, she’s **_going_** to find out …

She shifts a little bit, then freezes, looking down to find the mess he’s made of their clothes.

Her hand traces down to run along her dress, where her thigh meets his apex … and sees her hand pause when she realizes what the wetness **_is_**!

“Clay, did _you_ …” she doesn’t finish that sentence – she doesn’t actually _have_ to.

He can’t look her in the eyes, when she looks back up at him. He forces himself to look **_anywhere_** but in her eyes. And tears are rapidly creeping into his own.

“Fuck, I-I’m sorry, Hannah …” he manages to breathe out, “I _know_ how it looks, but I d-didn’t … I would n-never …” he’s starting to hyperventilate and his skin feels like it might crawl off at the bone.

Then, suddenly, her **_lips_** are against **_his_**.

The kiss is soft, reassuring, **_patient_** , even …

He doesn’t understand _why_ she’s kissing him, but it does do the trick of shocking his system into ceasing its hyperventilation.

“It’s _okay_ , Helmet … It happens when you sleep, sometimes, like _all_ boys …” she helps him clarify in a reassuring tone.

He relaxes a little when he realizes that she’s not going to **_yell_** at him for it. She doesn’t even seem the least bit upset about it, at all.

“Yes, _sometimes_ …” he agrees.

“We got _pretty_ tangled up, last night, didn’t we?” she offers him a little smile, and he suddenly realizes she’s actually joking with him. Like she normally does. They banter ordinarily, like this, at the Crestmont.

It’s a less ordinary smile on her lips, and the light doesn’t _quite_ touch her eyes, but it’s abundantly clear she’s making a hearty attempt to ease the tension between them.

“Yeah, I guess we did,” Clay eases a little bit, his muscles relax, and he smiles back.

“Thanks for letting me stay with you, last night, even _after_ …” she trails off, looks down, and the smile immediately leaves her lips.

Clay feels a knot lodge in his stomach. He reaches up to cup her cheek, drawing her eyes back into his, “I’m not mad, Hannah. It’s _okay_ , I shouldn’t have … I mean … we’re not even **_dating_** …” he doesn’t know **_what_** they are, exactly.

Are they _just_ best friends? Best friends whom have _kissed_ like **_lover’s_** kiss? And what was _that_ kiss just now? What did it **_mean_**? Or was it just to **_calm_** him?

He hates that his mind wants answers, but his mouth is too afraid to ask the questions that go with them.

He just has to _wonder_ – and **_keep_** wondering.

“You wouldn’t want that, anyway, Helmet,” she mentions softly.

“Want _what_?” he wonders aloud.

“To **_date_** me,” her voice is small and sounds so haunted.

It makes him want to hug her, and he does. He draws her closer, crushing her into his front and _squeezes_.

“I told you last night, Hannah … I **_love_** you … but I … I know I misread this … misread **_us_** … and I _respect_ that, okay?” he relinquishes his hold on her and when he looks into her eyes, her face has gone unreadable, again.

“Can you—Do you have any _clothes_ … I could change into … because of the—”

“Oh! Yeah, of _course_!” he awkwardly scrambles from his bed, after she draws her leg from between his and scoots away from him, to allow him to stand.

He hurries to his closet and rummages through, collecting an oversized t-shirt and fresh boxers from the mix. He doesn’t think his jeans would fit her.

Clay is quick to make it back to her side, and hand them over. He can see better from this angle, the massive stain he made all down the skirt of her dress, starting at her abdomen.

“I should … um, _shower_ , anyway … cause of the, um …” he trails off, gesturing to his own boxers.

Hannah makes a face that could just be awkwardness of her own, but she nods her head and shrugs her shoulders, “Yeah, okay, _sure_ ,” she agrees.

Clay shoots her one last appropriately embarrassed look, before returning to his closet, snapping up a fresh set of clothes, and hurrying to shower.

This time, he doesn’t think twice of easing his erection down under the heavy shower stream. It only takes a few quick wanks and he’s spilling down the drain. He doesn’t even think of Hannah, tries _not_ to think of _anything_ really. His body reacts to the stimulation, readily, and feeds into that.

He makes his shower quick, not wanting to leave her alone for **_too_** long – or to be left alone with his **_own_** rampant thoughts for too long, come to that.

Once he’s out he dresses in his usual skintight jeans and button-down t-shirt, and heads back into his room.

Hannah’s already changed into his shirt that bags on her, and boxers that fall just midway down her thighs.

“You _look_ …” he stops himself, realizing he was just going to put into words (again) how beautiful she looks. And he can’t, because _friends_ don’t do that sort of thing …

“What? Does it not look, _good_?” she worries at her bottom lip with her front teeth and glances down at the bedsheets.

“ _No_! I mean, **_yes_**! I mean … um … the _affirmative_ … of … _that_ …” he feels like he’s gone back to the beginning of their relationship, when he couldn’t talk to her. When he couldn’t even make _sense_ when trying to carry on a normal conversation with her.

Hannah smiles though, and it feels like a genuine smile, then shakes her head. “Calm _down_ , Clay, it’s fine, I know what you mean … I was just _teasing_ ,” she says through a laugh.

His heartbeat slows and he nods, pushing his hands into his jean pockets.

“Oh, okay … well _good_ , then,” he lifts one corner of his mouth in a half-smile, back.

Hannah’s eyes have begun to shift around his room, with this silence that is almost deafening, lingering in the air.

“I’ve never actually _been_ in your house before … or your room,” Hannah seems to realize all at once, which has Clay’s cheeks pinkening and he drops down on his mattress, with a semi-nod.

“Yeah, I guess we haven’t really … done the whole … um … hangout at each other’s _house_ thing, before …” he chuckles nervously, pulling his hands from his pockets to rub his palms on his jeans.

“I like it. It’s very … _you_ ,” she admits, while her eyes travel over posters and trinkets stood on his desk and dresser.

“Is it? I just … sorta put things _wherever_ …” until she brought it up, he hadn’t even though about this being the first time, Hannah’s ever ventured in his room. It’s a big step in their friendship, for her to have slept in his bed … and now be perusing his room with the same unreadable expression as before.

He doesn’t know whether he should panic, because Hannah’s actually _in_ his room, or just be **_okay_** about it. It hadn’t really occurred to him, until now.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Helmet, you’re pretty cool. I mean, you _are_ a nerd, after all. Your room _fits_ that … your Nerdom,” she clarifies, inventing a word for it on the spot.

He laughs and shrugs his shoulders, “So, I have the Hannah Baker seal of _approval_ , do I?” he shoots back.

“Yes, of _course_ , Clay,” she giggles through a smile, and it’s the most genuine one he’s seen all morning.

Its so easy to talk to her like this. Now that he’s calmed down a little … now that he knows she’s not mad at him for well … _all_ of it.

 ** _Everything_**.

Somehow, everything is _better_.

But he still feels this strange sense of reasoning inside of him. The smallest part of his mind that screams about how easy ‘ _this’_ is. The conversations. And how well they get along. So why doesn’t she feel what **_he_** feels? Why doesn’t she see how good things could be if they _were_ together?

It _has_ to be him … something **_about_** him that isn’t attractive … or _good_ …

He can’t even explain it. Because he doesn’t know what it **_is_** about him, she doesn’t like, but when she talks to him this way … he always thinks, _what if?_

Maybe it’s like he’s communicated with her telepathically, or maybe she just reads the sudden vibe off of him, but her expression changes suddenly.

And she focuses her eyes down on his mattress, poking at the fabric with her fingers, absently.

“Clay …” she trails off, her voice suddenly cracks with tears.

He stiffens and fights the urge to hold her hand.

“What’s the matter, Hannah?” he inquires, gently.

“I … I need to _tell_ you something, Clay …” her voice trembles and he tries not to feel panicky about the way her eyes gloss over with this distant haze.

He dares to scoot a little closer, but still doesn’t touch her. “You can tell me **_anything_** , Hannah … You know that … _don’t_ you?”

She picks at the material of his blankets, still fighting back tears.

“I … I _saw_ something, last night … at the party … something … something _wrong_ … **_bad_** …” she shakes her head and sniffles.

Clay’s brows draw together in concern. “ _Saw_ something?”

She nods, then wipes her tears with a thumb.

He’s patient, not wanting to push whatever it is, out of her.

“It was … Bryce, he …” she stops herself and his blood turns to ice.

Everyone heard the rumors about Bryce. They were _never_ good and always laced with some kind of _immoral_ deed.

“He _what_?” Clay did push, now, afraid to know, but even more afraid **_not_** to.

“He **_raped_** , Jessica …”

And **_there_** it was.

Suddenly it all made sense. The way Hannah practically _launched_ herself into his arms, clung to him like he was a freaking safety-net, refused to speak for a **_long_** time after the party …

“ _Fuck_ … Hannah …” he didn’t know what to say to that. Clay wasn’t even sure how to wrap his head around Hannah witnessing such an abhorrent thing.

“It was … it was _after_ you left, and I … Jess and Justin they came into the room … and I _hid_ … I didn’t know what else to **_do_** … and then Justin left and then _Bryce_ … he … he …” she broke down into sobs that had him itching to hold her, which he didn’t have to wait _long_ for. Because she was across the bed and half onto his lap, _before_ he could ask, permission.

She pushed her face into the crevice of _his_ neck, while he planted (what he hoped) was a comforting kiss, to the divot of _hers_.

“I’m sorry … I shouldn’t have **_left_** you there, Hannah … I should have **_stayed_** …” Clay whispers, pushing his hands into her curls.

“I t-told you to _go_ …” she breathes, shakily.

“Doesn’t mean it was _right_ that I did …” Clay feels his stomach clench and he lovingly kisses her forehead, not sure he should be so affectionate, but unable to really **_prevent_** himself, right now.

He’s just grateful that Bryce didn’t get a chance to impose on _her_ – to rape **_her_**.

Otherwise, he’d _kill_ him. He didn’t care if it would land him in jail, he’d **_kill_** the bastard.

Hannah retracts from his arms, planting one of her hands against his chest, and he can see conflict in her pretty blue eyes, again. It’s lingering there, fractured.

“Clay? I …” she trails off, seeming to struggle with finding the proper words.

“Is there something _else_?” he presses, wondering if there’s more to the rape. Or simply more to her thoughts.

Hannah’s always been this mystery to him. Even when he finds out a secret, it’s only a small portion of the Hannah Baker puzzle, and doesn’t always fit.

She wipes a few tears from her cheeks, then lets out a sigh, “You keep saying you misread things … that you’re _sorry_ for it … sorry for **_last_** night …” she sounds strange. He can’t place his finger on what in her tone is weird, but it is. _Something_ is off.

“I’m the one that kissed _you_ , Hannah,” he explains, through his slight embarrassment. “You clearly didn’t _want_ it … or want me too … and I … I did it _anyway_ —”

“No. Clay, that’s _not_ true,” she relents, shaking her head, vehemently.

“What isn’t true?” He’s confused again, not that that’s anything new.

“That I didn’t want you to … That I didn’t _want_ you to kiss me,” she looks into his eyes and suddenly his heart is pounding.

His skin feels flushed with heat and his stomach flutters then ties into zillions of knots.

He’s made _speechless_ – he’s afraid to _ask_.

“I **_wanted_** you to kiss me, Clay. You didn’t … you didn’t _force_ yourself on me,” she reaches out, drags her thumb across his hand, and he shudders when she drags it gently across the back.

“I don’t understand … You were so angry about it … you were _sobbing_ , Hannah … why were you sobbing so hard if I _didn’t_ do anything wrong?” he forces himself to ask the questions that were eating at him, alive. He doesn’t even presume to know what he should think, if she’s telling the truth.

What caused the violent reaction? Had someone _else_ hurt her?

Tears well in her eyes and she chews her bottom lip. He can see how her mouth is beginning to quiver. Even her _hand_ is quivering against his.

“It’s _just_ …” she hesitates, and he can see her doing battle with herself. Deciding whether she should tell, or not.

“Just, _what_ , Hannah?” he’s not accusatory, not even upset, he’s trying to be supportive. At least he hopes, he sounds like a supportive friend, should.

“You’re _different_ , Clay … than every other guy I’ve ever met, ever **_known_** , even …” she explains, “and I don’t … I don’t want to be the thing that _ruins_ you …” her eyes avoid his now and her voice cracks.

Clay’s heart almost stops in his chest.

She doesn’t want to **_ruin_** him? That’s _absurd_.

 _He’s_ the **_tainted_** one.

He’s the one that doesn’t act _normal_ , that can’t **_breathe_** when he’s around her …

“R-Ruin me? _Hannah_ …” he makes a split-second decision (he knows he might regret later) to lean in and capture her lips. It’s not like last night’s kiss at the party. It’s sweet and _gentle_. Not swift and _needy_. And he thumbs away the tears she’s cried, while he does it.

She returns the kiss, with a timidity that has him questioning himself _and_ his timing, **_again_** , before he retracts.

“What ruins me is the thought that I might _never_ get to do that, again …” he begins to spew out words again, and this time he doesn’t really think too hard about what he’s _actually_ saying, “… What ruins me, is that I actually **_believed_** that I hurt you last night, that I … I tried to **_force_** you …” he swallows and continues, “… Hannah, you’re the _love_ of my life, and yeah, I know how _that_ fucking sounds, because we’re in high school and I have no one to _compare_ what I feel with you, to, but I think that’s kind of the point, too, that what I feel for _everyone_ else, doesn’t even _remotely_ compare with what I feel when I’m with **_you_**. When we’re together, everything feels _good_ and **_right_** … and I don’t care what kids at school say, or about the _rumors_ going around about you … you could **_never_** fucking ruin me, Hannah. Not by being _with_ me …”

She’s tearing up again, but he can see that it’s not in a bad way. She looks _happy_ , she’s **_smiling_** , through her tears, and he can’t believe that he almost talked them back into _just_ being friends, again. He can’t believe that he almost gave up on her – on **_them_**. What was he _thinking_?

Why would he **_do_** that? He knows now, he’s going to fight for her. If that’s what it will _take_ , he’ll fight for, Hannah.

“C-Clay …” she whimpers, “… _Helmet_ …”

He searches her eyes, smiling through a few tears of his own, and she draws him into a hug. Her arms tighten around his shoulders and he lifts his arms to wind around her waist.

“I _want_ you, Hannah. The rest is just **_noise_** …” he belays in a low whisper, into the shell of her ear.

“Is _it_ , though, Clay?” Hannah’s smile wavers, as though his speech (more like insanely romantic words) have started to dwindle and the doubt has snuck back in.

“Is _what_?” he asks.

“Is it all just _noise_ , to you?” she appears to be fraught with worry and he doesn’t know if he can get that to subside in her. He still doesn’t know exactly what caused her to panic. It had to be something more than just the idea that she’d ruin him if they followed through with intercourse.

“What? The **_rumors_**? You know I don’t _listen_ to them, Hannah. You know that, don’t you?” That isn’t _exactly_ the truth. He **_has_** listened and believed **_some_** of the rumors, but he sometimes can’t match them up with the Hannah **_he_** knows, versus the Hannah that supposedly exists in these _rumors_ – these legend-like, **_stories_**.

Maybe she sees a little of that in his eyes, because she wets her lips with a lap of her tongue and draws a little farther away from him.

“That doesn’t mean you don’t _believe_ them, does it, Clay?” she sounds sad, hollow, even and his stomach tightens. He feels a larger than usual knot forming in his lower abdomen.

“I don’t **_understand_** the rumors, Hannah. They don’t fit with what **_I_** know … who I _know_ you to be,” he admits, “So, how _can_ I believe them, when they don’t make _sense_? It’s why I _don’t_ listen to them. I don’t _believe_ them. I’ll believe what _you_ tell me, but not what I **_hear_**.” He slides his hand into hers, giving a firm squeeze to the digits.

“I wanted _you_ , Clay …” she whispers, seeming to go somewhere else, her eyes turning glassy, “… it felt _good_ when y-you touched me, and I … I wanted to be **_with_** you, but … but I couldn’t stop _thinking_ about the rumors … the things _other_ guys did to me … how they **_hurt_** me …” she flicks away a few stray tears, “… so I _stopped_ you. I pushed **_you_** away … You deserve _better_ , than me.”

Clay can feel his stomach tighten, heart clench. What can he even **_say_** to that? It isn’t even _remotely_ true. Her belief that he could do **_better_**. He _can’t_. He **_won’t_**.

“Were you … did one of _them_ … like what Bryce did … to _Jessica_ …” he can’t say it out loud. He never _wants_ to say that word, (in combination with Hannah’s name) **_ever_**.

“You mean … did any of them … **_r-rape_** me?” she lets out a sound that could have been a laugh, or a _cry_ – he can’t tell through her sniffles and sobs.

The knot tightens inside him.

“ _Y-Yes_ …” he forces himself to say.

“ _Define_ , **_Rape_** , Clay?” she breathes, not giving him a chance to answer before she prattles on, “Did any of them stick their _cock_ in me? **_No_**. But did they grab my _ass_ in the hallway? Shove their hands up my **_skirt_** in a fucking diner? Grab my _breasts_? _Try_ to do worse? **_Sure_**.”

Clay wants to throw up. He wants to hold her and **_never_** let go. He wants so much in this instant, but he doesn’t know _what_ to say – how to **_react_**. How _should_ he react? What should he **_say_**? Is there even a way to make any of this **_better_** for her?

His mind is in a complete _tailspin_.

“Jesus fucking Christ … _Hannah_ …” he wants to kill someone.

He **_does_**.

He wants to go on the _defense_ , find a face – and punch it in.

“So, _you_ tell **_me_** , Clay? Have I been _raped_?” she looks aggravated, angry, but underneath her anger is this _pain_ – it’s indescribable – and she looks like a wounded animal. It _petrifies_ him. Because he doesn’t want to say the **_wrong_** thing – he doesn’t want to make this **_worse_** for her.

“Hannah … I didn’t _know_ …”

“That’s what I’m _talking_ about, Clay. You’ve never _known_ anything. But you’ve judged and watched. I **_know_** you have. And now that you **_do_** know _some_ of the truth, do you _still_ want to fuck me? Do you still mean _everything_ you said, before? All those frilly words about love and this being ‘ _good and right_ ’ for you?” she snaps and it cuts him, _deep_.

It changes _everything_ inside of him – flips it all inside _out_ , upside **_down_** , in an instant, and suddenly it’s all starting to go **_horribly_** wrong …

“Is that what **_you_** think? Hannah … you think that I’m **_that_** kind of guy? That I’d _just_ … That you wouldn’t be good enough for me, because of what some **_other_** guys did to you? You r-really think I can just s-stop _loving_ you, over it? You t-think I’m **_capable_** of that?” he feels his insides wrench, as though caught in a vice. He’s the one _sobbing_ now. He feels like **_shit_**.

He lowers his head into his hands and breaks down. Right there, in front of her, like a _child_.

“ _Shit_ … **_Clay_** …” she reaches out and grazes his back, and even that simple touch makes him feel both good and bad all at once.

Good, because he **_loves_** her. Bad, because he hasn’t **_protected_** her. He’s been such a shit friend, to her. He’s failed her so often and not even **_known_** it.

He finally collects himself enough to lower his hands – to look into her eyes …

“L-Look … for the **_record_** , Hannah … last night wasn’t _about_ getting laid, to me. It wasn’t about **_fucking_** you … I …” he closes his eyes with a heavy swallow, before forcing them to open, and _himself_ , to go on, “… I wanted to be **_with_** you … I wanted to give my **_virginity_** to you …” he realizes what he’s said, **_after_** he says it.

As far as he knows she wasn’t aware that he is, still a virgin. Or maybe she _was_. He’s never expressly told her that he is. He hasn’t even told her that he’d _never_ been kissed, before last night. He’s a high school junior and it’s incredibly pathetic that he’d **_never_** been kissed – or done _that_. He’s pretty sure most everyone **_else_** has.

But as she’d mentioned earlier, he’s a **_nerd_**. And she’s the only one at, Liberty High, that’s ever thought that that’s ‘ _cute_.’

He forces himself to look into Hannah’s eyes, despite his own rapidly reddening cheeks, even though he doesn’t _actually_ want to face her, now. He just wants to **_hide_**.

“You’re a … _virgin_?” she echoes it softly, and she looks surprised, which means she _didn’t_ know.

“I told you … most of the girls thought I was _gay_ … and then once they didn’t … I met _you_ ... and I … I never wanted _anyone_ else, after …” he explains, feeling humiliated.

Her hand grazes his arm and he shivered, straight up his spine. “Clay, I’m _sorry_ …”

“ _No_ , Hannah … I think I should be the one that’s sorry. For just … _existing_ in the first place,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I’ve done nothing but _fuck_ things up with you, since I met you. I ignored _every_ shitty thing people have **_said_** about you … I just let it _all_ happen, didn’t I? I thought I was a good friend to you, but I haven’t really been _that_ at all … And now … now you can’t even **_fathom_** being with me … and it’s because I’m a _completely_ fucking useless, piece of shit. And I can’t blame you for not believing me. Because … fucking **_look_** at me, Hannah …”

He realizes what’s brought him to this place, _suddenly_. Why all of his hopes and self-promises from a few minutes ago (about loving her and fighting for her) have suddenly _vanished_. His anxiety and depression have come over him. All at once.

It happens _sometimes_ , at random. And he hasn’t taken his medicine to counteract it in **_years_**.

His worst, most depraved, emotions _overpower_ him, and he suddenly feels _worthless_. And disgusting. Like last night, when Hannah _first_ rejected him.

“ _Clay_ —”

“No. … Hannah … What was **_I_** thinking? You could never want someone like _me_. That’s it, isn’t it? You feel _sorry_ for me … I’m just a fucking loser that can’t even find a girl willing to **_sleep_** with me! Because that’s what high school is all about, _isn’t_ it? Sleeping around? At least for **_guys_** ,” he insists, then stands from his bed, needing to pace. His hands are starting to tremble. “You have every _right_ to distrust me … my **_intentions_** …” he laughs, “I wouldn’t even fucking trust me.”

Hannah’s stood up now, too. He can see her debating something. Her hands have clenched into fists, while her eyes continue to leak never-ending tears. She’s a mess, just like he is. How had he _missed_ it for so long?

“I didn’t **_mean_** it, Clay. I was just _frustrated_ … I shouldn’t have _said_ that …” Hannah tries to recant her words, but they’ve already done the intended damage to him.

He already feels her meaning in his bones – and in his heart.

And it _hurts_. A lot.

He does stop pacing, though. Stares at her, with a wounded expression in his eyes.

“You suspect I’m different, but you don’t _believe_ it, do you, Hannah?” Clay asks, through his crippling pain.

“ ** _W-What_**?” she peers at him, questioningly.

“Maybe, I’m just like all the _other_ guys. Maybe I was just _horny_ at Jessica’s party. Maybe I just wanted to **_fuck_** you. That’s what you’re _thinking_ , aren’t you, Hannah? I mean, **_fuck_** , I can’t even sleep in the same **_bed_** with you, _without_ …” he resists the urge to throw something, **_punch_** something … this is all too much. The _truth_ is too much for him to **_handle_**.

Hannah’s eyes **_widen_** , she backs a few steps away, mouth agape.

“I-I never s-said _that_ … C-Clay … I’m j-just …” Hannah looks terrified, and that makes him feel worse.

“I think you should _leave_ , Hannah … I think … I think we should just … just be **_nothing_** …” Clay breathes, “That’s what **_you_** want, isn’t it? I c-can’t lie to you … w-won’t _ever_ hurt you, if we’re just _nothing_ …”

It breaks his heart to say _those_ words. Because he doesn’t **_want_** to. But he feels its necessary, because he can’t fucking _help_ her. He’s in over his **_head_**. And his mind has shut down.

“C-Clay … y-you don’t m-mean that …” Hannah’s voice is hollow … **_aching_**.

“I was never a good enough f-friend to you, _anyway_. You’re better off **_without_** me,” he forces himself to be insistent. His heart is _already_ broken. His skin is already ready to break apart and rupture, but he just wants to be alone. He doesn’t want to _feel_ anything else. He’s going to regret how this turned out tomorrow, but **_not_** right now.

Not **_today_**.

“F-Fine …” she whispers, collecting her dress from his bed, along with her phone, then heads to his bedroom doorway and pauses.

“Despite what you _hear_ … a-and for the _record_ … I’m a **_virgin_** , too,” she whispers and he stands, stock-still, wide-eyed, as she swung his door shut. Her footsteps disappeared down the stairs and out the front door, while he remains unmoving, stunned silent, for several minutes.

* * *

_iii. things we can’t go back from._

It’s all a _blur_.

The next **_week_**.

Jeff gives him shit for ruining things with Hannah. But Jeff doesn’t understand that he’s not _ever_ going to be, _remotely_ , good enough for her.

It’s not just because he’s a virgin (because apparently, she is too?!) but because he’s not as good a friend as he, once, _believed_ he was, to her.

There are all these questions that swirl in his mind. Why did she tell him everything she _told_ him? _Why_? If she was just going to turn around and accuse him of **_lying_**? Of just wanting to _‘fuck’_ her at that party?

It was more than _infatuation_ that he harbored for Hannah. It was **_actual_** love. Hadn’t he proved that when he poured his **_heart_** out to her?

He doesn’t _deserve_ to have love and he _knows_ that.

He managed to avoid Hannah in the hallways, avoid making eye contact in their classes, and endured **_awkward_** silences while they worked together at the Crestmont.

She’s already submitted her two weeks’ notice, however, and he knows she isn’t going to be working with him again, after that, but it doesn’t make him _hurt_ any less.

In fact, thinking about working without _her_ at his side, is rightly painful, and he needs to alleviate a little of his pain, by getting _laid_.

That’s what he told himself when Jeff asked him to attend this party, at Bryce’s house. Okay, it’s actually more like what Jeff insisted, while informing him he had no choice **_but_** to attend this party at Bryce’s house.

He still hadn’t told _anyone_ what Hannah accused Bryce of at Jess’s party. He honestly doesn’t know what can be done about it.

From the looks of Jess, she has no _idea_ what Bryce had done to her.

She was still cruising the halls at school with Justin – _Bryce in_ _tow_ – like nothing was out of the ordinary. Hell, she was all over Justin at this party, he’d just watched her and Justin heading towards a backroom, kissing and laughing, still dripping wet from the hot tub.

It was _unnerving_ to say the least – but he didn’t know how to get involved, _he_ hadn’t witnessed her rape, Hannah had, and he’d promised to leave Hannah alone, **_forever_**.

So far, he’d done nothing but _regret_ his decision to shut Hannah out.

He just didn’t know how to speak to her. He didn’t even know how to explain to her, that he sometimes had _complete_ meltdowns and blurted out things he didn’t actually mean.

So far, the girls at this party were mostly older than him, or **_well_** out of his league, and he couldn’t find any interest in talking to them – let alone entertain a want to lose his _virginity_ to any of them.

Despite how many beers he’s had, he is still on his feet.

He doesn’t exactly know how. He’s a little nervous, and pretty much ready to go home.

Watching Alex play shoot-em-up, video games is hardly his idea of entertainment, and Jeff is off to the side, making out with his girlfriend, equally ignoring him. Jeff had given up an hour or so ago, at trying to get him laid, thank god.

He’s _ready_ to go home.

He’s just about to make an excuse to head out, when Monty mentions something about a girl in the hot tub with Bryce.

There’s a pit that immediately sinks in Clay’s stomach.

He can’t help but recall what Hannah told him, last week. It immediately crosses this mind that, this girl might not be, necessarily, _willing_.

Bryce doesn’t have a current girlfriend, after all, and he thought everyone that had been in the hot tub, had gotten out of it. Zach had stumbled in a few seconds after Jess and Justin had, dripping and laughing, equally wasted.

Clay’s on his feet in a flash, standing alongside Monty to peek through the window blinds.

“It’s just some _slut_ ,” Monty chuckles, unconcerned.

But Clay recognizes her cropped brown curls.

“It’s _Hannah_!” his palms sweat and his skin prickles with hatred.

Jeff’s stopped kissing his girl and they both make their way toward the window. Alex, too.

They all peer out, watching as water splashes over the side of the hot tub, and Clay can tell Hannah is _struggling_ – fighting to **_free_** herself from Bryce’s grip.

“He’s **_raping_** her!” Clay shoves past Jeff, and launches out the door before anyone can stop him.

Jeff’s right behind him, but he doesn’t care – he just **_has_** to get to Hannah!

Jeff’s faster than him, (not to mention **_physically_** stronger from playing sports) he has Bryce out of the hot tub, and slammed onto the pavement before Clay can reach the scene.

Hannah’s gasping and sobbing against the edge of the tub, her eyes somewhat distant – in _shock_.

Nothing else matters to Clay. Not the gaping, stunned, expressions of Alex, Monty, and Leah, nor the sound of Jeff’s shouts, and physical beatdown of Bryce – **_Just_** Hannah.

“Hannah … _fuck_ …” he reaches down, tucking his arms under her armpits, then carefully as possible, hoists her from the tub, and into his arms.

He doesn’t care that she’s dripping wet, soaked to the bone. He doesn’t even care that she’s getting **_him_** just as drenched as she is – he just wants to _hold_ her.

Her legs are weak – _wobbly_ – like Jell-O and they aren’t able to hold her weight, right now, so she sends them both toppling to the ground. He goes with her, willingly, and she half-falls, half scrambles into his lap.

“I’m right here … it’s _okay_ … I’ve got you, Hannah …” Clay notices a towel being extended down to him, and realizes it’s Alex’s hand on the other end of it.

He extends him a grateful nod, before wrapping the towel around Hannah’s shoulders, trying to combat her shaking. He doesn’t know if its from the cold, or shock, or **_both_**.

She barely seems to notice the towel; her eyes are still staring, _lifeless_ – almost like they’re looking right _through_ him – and it’s deeply concerning.

It doesn’t even register to Clay, that **_he’s_** actually sobbing right now. His own shoulders are shaking, while tears track down his cheeks. Despite what he said to her, last week, he _loves_ Hannah. He’s **_always_** going to love her. And he wouldn’t wish what Bryce just _did_ to her, on anyone.

He can’t help but blame _himself_ for it.

 ** _Again_**.

If he hadn’t kicked her out … if he’d just kept _trying_ to convince her they were better off together … but he’d given up and he would never forgive himself for it.

What was Hannah even **_doing_** here? He wondered to himself.

She wasn’t meant to _be_ here.

“Hannah …?” he breathes, and it’s like she suddenly comes out of it.

“H-Helmet?” her teeth are chattering, eyes leaking constant tears, through her sobs and she’s suddenly winding her arms around him.

She’s clutching him like he’s her life support, _again_. Like he’s her safety-net. And he clutches her tight as he can, to his front.

“I’m _here_ , Hannah … You’re **_safe_** , now … I … I won’t let go of you **_again_** … I _promise_ …” he’s saying things he means, and this time nothing _will_ stop him.

He doesn’t care if his mind goes into an overload – or what she accuses him of – he’s never going to hurt her, again.

The world starts coming back into focus, now that he’s made sure, Hannah’s okay.

He sees that a whole crowd has amassed around the spectacle. Kids are on their cell phones, calling 911, Bryce is laid out on the cement, Jeff standing over him, swollen bruised-knuckled hand in tow.

It’s a **_complete_** mess. He picks Jess and Justin out of the crowd.

Jess looks horrified, tears are streaming down her face and Justin’s holding her tight, with an unreadable expression on his face.

Clay can already hear the distant sound of alarms, growing nearer and nearer to the scene.

Hannah hears them too, and only clings tighter to him.

“M-Make them s-stop, C-Clay …” she whimpers.

“Stop what?” he manages to ask through his own tears.

“L-Looking …” she closes her eyes and quivers harder.

Suddenly, flashes start occurring and he realizes, some of the assholes are taking **_pictures_**!

He looks to Jeff, meets his eye, and Jeff gives him a little nod of acknowledgement.

“Hey! Assholes! Stop fucking taking pictures! What the fuck is the matter with you?! Huh?!” Jeff stomps toward the group, and Clay turns his attention back to Hannah. He turns his back on the crowd, maneuvering Hannah so that she’s completely curled up on his lap, unable to be seen by those gathered, that Jeff is now, pushing further away with threats and anger.

“There … they can’t see you now. It’s okay. The police will be here soon,” Hannah doesn’t appear particularly comforted by his words, in fact they seem to make her sob harder.

“E-Everyone will know, C-Clay … I’ll b-be Hannah B-Baker the s-slut, f-forever, n-now … No o-one will b-believe I d-didn’t want h-him …” she digs her nails into his shoulders, in her hysteria, and he flinches – but immediately shakes his head.

“You’re not,” he’s trying to be firm as he says it, despite his own tears. “You’re **_not_** , Hannah … I saw what he _did_ to you. Alex, Jeff, Monty … we saw what he was _doing_ to you! I’ll tell the cops, I’ll tell **_everyone_** , what I saw. You’re not a slut, Hannah … You were _never_ that, okay?” his voice is cracking, but he’s trying to keep it together, at least a little bit, for her.

“Clay—”

“No one will think that … I won’t _let_ them, not anymore,” he continues.

She sniffles, wiping at her eyes, then nods, submitting tiredly to lean against his front.

“They’ve never s-stopped, C-Clay … they’ve n-never stopped …” she whimpers in a soft coo.

“That’s _all_ gonna change now, Hannah … I promise, everything is going to change.” And Clay means that, with every fiber of his being – every bone in his body.

**_Shit. Will. Change._ **

* * *

_iv. beginnings & ends._

Things moved quickly from that point and its all a jumbled mess of moments in Clay’s head. The sirens had drawn nearer and nearer, until they had pulled up in Bryce’s driveway, right in front of his mansion.

Clay can still remember the way Hannah clung to him, like he was her _air_ – her **_lungs_** – a piece of her. She’d not wanted to let him go, not especially when the police had cuffed Bryce and lumbered him off toward a police car. No amount of flaunting his wealth or standing in society had gotten him out of it, not with so _many_ witnesses to the contrary pointing the finger at him.

Then, there was the moment Hannah had to let go of him. He can still remember **_that_** , too.

When he accompanied her in the ambulance, they’d examined her, told her it was customary to have a rape kit performed, and she’d agreed.

The Baker’s were called, once she was safely in the hospital.

Clay can still see the tearful eyes of Hannah’s mother and the _furious_ eyes of her father, when he met them for the first time. It was apparent her father wanted someone to pay, while her mother had just been grateful, she was _alive_.

Clay’s parents were contacted by the police, (since he’d witnessed the rape and needed to make an official statement) which had his attorney-mother driving down to the hospital in a heartbeat to be there while he was questioned.

He could still see the slant of a pen on paper, while the policeman jotted down his side of things. Maybe there was a hint of disbelief in those eyes – but he hadn’t been able to tell. Clay, had just wanted what was _best_ for Hannah – nothing else had mattered in the moment.

Hannah wasn’t admitted into the hospital, her wounds were mostly mental, her bruises _minimal_. ‘ _Non-life-threatening_ ,’ the ER doctor had put it.

Clay can still hear the millions of questions from his parents in his head. How _well_ does he know, Hannah? Is he aware that she has this **_atrocious_** reputation? On and on the questions had gone, until he told them he needed to go to his room. Wanted to _sleep_.

The truth is, that he was _anxious_ about Hannah.

Even now, as he sits in his room, staring down at his iPhone, she’s all he can think about at present.

He can still see her there, in his head, facedown over the edge of the hot tub, Bryce Walker like a parasite, with his hands all over her. **_Raping her._**

Clay feels like he might be sick. But he doesn’t want to think about himself right now, nor his stomach, all he wants is to think about _Hannah_.

Finally, he gets up the nerve – and calls her.

It rings twice, then he hears the soft whisper of her voice on the other end, “Clay?” the tone is hollow – empty. His heart skips in his chest.

“It’s me,” he confirms, suddenly with a dry mouth and nothing to say.

“I’m sorry, Helmet,” her voice is so meager, that he barely hears it.

He can’t understand what she could possibly think she has to apologize for. Did this have to do with the day after Jess’s party? _He_ is to blame for that – himself and his fucked-up thoughts.

“You have **_nothing_** to be sorry for,” he insists. “Do you understand, Hannah? I was a fucking **_asshole_** to you and I know that.”

Hannah makes a sound on the other end. It might have been a whimper or a sigh, but he can’t be sure. “It’s me, Clay … I was wrong to accuse you of … of wanting me for **_that_** …” she is crying now; Clay can hear her through the speaker.

“No, I told you that morning that I would _protect_ you, Hannah … and when you started to tell me things … when you **_tried_** to let me in, I started to panic – and I … I guess I was embarrassed about … about how we woke up … and I said so many atrocious things … and I wouldn’t have even been at that stupid fucking party tonight, if I’d just stopped my thoughts from taking over like they always fucking do,” he’s frustrated in this moment, and pouring his heart out to her, _again_ , “and maybe **_we_** would have been alone, together … in one of our bedrooms, instead of at Bryce’s fucking party … and he wouldn’t have—” Clay can’t even finish that sentence.

He almost _gags_ on the words.

“That doesn’t matter n-now, Clay, _does_ it?” she challenges, her voice still off, “Whatever we _might_ have had … whoever we might have **_been_** … it’s _passed_ now. And as much as I want you, Clay … as much as I wish we could be something _good_ together, we **_can’t_** be. Because look what happened … I made you break down … I’ve never seen you that way. But _I_ did that to you … without even meaning to – wanting to – I _did_ it. And now, now I’m worse than broken, Clay. I’m _shattered_ , irreparable, and I’m worse than tainted. Because the whole fucking school will know what Bryce did. And you **_know_** what they’ll say, Clay. You know **_exactly_** what they’ll say … Hannah is a _slut_ … she **_wanted_** him, then changed her mind. She _deserved_ it. Didn’t I, Clay? **_Deserve_** it?”

Clay’s reeling as he listens to her spiel. She’s gone off the deep end, but it’s even worse than that. He can hear the hollowness in her tone that’s made her _different_. It’s unsettling, **_unnerving_**.

He wishes that he’d just rode his bike to her house, snuck in her window. He could have managed it, and she could have seen his face, seen the devastation and most of all – he could have _held_ her.

He _wants_ to hold her – wants to make it **_better_** – to take her pain away.

“No. **_No_** , Hannah. You didn’t fucking _deserve_ what he did to you! **_Fuck_** Bryce, okay? Fuck him! Fuck school! Fuck **_everyone_** that isn’t us, okay?” he’s tired of other people getting in her head. Of ruining whatever is good and pure in her.

He’s tired of his own anxieties, his own stressors ruining everything he is, too.

He’s tired of **_all_** of it.

 ** _Everything_**.

“Don’t freak out, Clay,” Hannah’s words jolt him back into conscientious thoughts. He was about to spiral – and she doesn’t need that _shit_ right now.

“I wish no one had ever made you think you weren’t worthy, Hannah. I wish I’d told you how _beautiful_ you are, and how much you fucking **_matter_** to me, every single day I saw you at school … at The Crestmont … I just wish ** _I_** was better for **_you_** ,” he admits, somberly.

Hannah’s quiet for a long time on the other end. He has to look at his phone to check and be certain she hasn’t just hung up. But he sees the numbers counting and knows she’s still there, hanging on, on the other end.

He jumps, when she finally does speak, “Can I t-tell you something, H-Helmet?” he realizes she’s broken-down into sobs. He can hear the little hitches now, when she speaks. He can almost picture her wiping her tears from the corners of her eyes, between sniffles.

He swallows, “ _Anything_ , Hannah. You can tell me anything,” he breathes as he tries not to join her in tears.

“I wanted _you_ to be my first, too, Clay. My first time. I always imagined that you would be gentle and soft. That your kisses would sink into me and make me feel you even when we weren’t together anymore. And I imagined how it would feel to have you inside of me, to have _you_ , Clay …” she draws him a picture with words and his mind goes there. He can feel his jeans tightening, skin twittering, heart pounding, even his _breath_ shakes …

“… But Bryce took _that_ , too. My first time will **_always_** be with a monster.”

His lust turns to rage in a _second_. He wants to throw his phone. He wants to fucking _strangle_ Bryce – and most of all, he wants to _kiss_ Hannah, tell her that simply isn’t true – but he fucking **_can’t_**. Because it is. It **_is_** true.

“I’m sorry, Hannah! I’m so _fucking_ sorry!” he doesn’t mean to say it so loudly, but he can’t chase away the demons that have crept into his fucking head, “I _ruined_ it, like I fucking ruin **_everything_**! I should have asked you out the first time I saw you. I should have … I should have fucking _tried_ … done fucking **_something_**!”

“Clay,” she interrupts, still sounding heavy, “I didn’t say that to _upset_ you …”

“Then why, Hannah? **_Why_** fucking say it? Huh?” he’s still panicky and anxious. His cock hurts now, its still straining his jeans and _that’s_ aggravating him. But more than that, he’s picturing their kisses on Jess’s bed. He’s imagining how it would have _felt_ to go through with it. If only so many people didn’t hurt Hannah to begin with. _If_ **_only_** …

“Because you deserve to know the truth. How _I_ feel … how I **_felt_** …” she sighs, heavily. “I _shouldn’t_ have told you though, should I?’

He’s torn in this moment. The knowing it painful, that much is for absolutely sure, but never knowing … that might have been worse somehow. He doesn’t _know_.

“I don’t know, Hannah,” he says after he remembers that she can’t see a shoulder shrug, after he makes it.

“I wish I didn’t have to go back to school on Monday,” she changes the topic, just like that.

Clay fidgets with his pantleg, trying to forget about the uncomfortable bulge in his crotch. “Don’t go. Won’t you be too sore … I mean …” he falls silent, because he didn’t want to take them both back there.

Hannah answers though, trying to put on a brave voice, but he can hear it waver, “I don’t want _them_ to worry …”

Clay knows she means her parents.

“Oh,” he mutters, dumbly, “ _Shouldn’t_ they be, though, Hannah? I mean … things keep fucking _escalating_ … And what about Jess … does _she_ even know? About Bryce at her party?”

Hannah swallows and he hears her voice crack, again, “I _tried_ , Clay … Justin’s convinced her that **_they_** slept together. She won’t listen to me.”

He **_really_** fucking hates their school …

Clay fidgets with the hem of his shirt. “She might believe you, _now_ , though, … after tonight.”

Hannah sighs, “No one will _believe_ he raped me, Clay.”

“I _do_. And so, does Jeff. I’ve never seen him so angry in all the time that I’ve known him. He beat the _shit_ out of Bryce … If he hadn’t, _I_ would have done it. I probably would have fucking **_killed_** him, Hannah …” He means every fucking word of it, too.

He **_still_** might kill him.

Hannah breathes, he can hear the air in her lungs, “Look what I’ve _done_ to you, Clay … I’ve already _ruined_ you,” she asserts. “You’ve always been sweet and quiet. Now I’ve disrupted that, in you. Can’t you see, Clay? Even being _friends_ with me … it’s not healthy for _you_.”

Clay closes his eyes and counts to ten, trying to calm his breathing. He doesn’t mean to be this way. He’s so fucking _frustrated_ right now. He’s pissed off at their school, at their _classmates_ , at **_everyone_**.

“Maybe that’s the problem, Hannah. I’ve stayed quiet. I promise, everything will be different, now. People will leave you the fuck alone, or they’ll _answer_ to me.”

“Clay—”

“You haven’t always known me, Hannah. You didn’t know me when things were **_bad_** … I haven’t always been _good_ like you think …” he rubs his eyes and tries not to think about his darker pieces. They’re tucked away and have been since he used to take antidepressants. But that doesn’t mean they can’t reemerge.

Besides, he’s _always_ going to be halfway toward **_another_** meltdown.

“What does _that_ mean, Clay?” she asks, cautiously.

Clay rubs his temples. “It just means that **_I’m_** going to keep anymore shit from happening to you, Hannah. And …” he musters up his courage, then proceeds, “… I will **_wait_** for you … I don’t care how long it fucking takes, but I’m going to wait until you give _us_ a chance. Because we **_need_** each other, Hannah … at least … _I_ need **_you_** …” he attests.

“Okay …” she relents into the phone, causing Clay to stiffen.

“ _Okay?_ ” he repeats, a tone of question in it.

“I don’t want to do anymore _damage_ , Clay … If you want to _try_ … we’ll **_try_** ,” she confirms, answering his unspoken question, “we’ll **_try_**.”

“You _mean_ it?” he realizes how chipper he sounds and knows he shouldn’t.

Nothing about what has transpired should make him even remotely happy. And he’s not, at least not on the surface, but he’s wanted Hannah for so long that he can’t believe she’s actually agreed to be with him … to **_date_** him.

“Sure, Clay. You’ll tire of me in a _week_ ,” she reasons, “then you can be free of whatever **_this_** is between us.”

“There’s never going to be a _replacement_ for Hannah Baker,” he echoes one of his previous statements with a slight smile cracked on his lips, painfully aware that she can’t see it, “and I **_won’t_** tire of you, that’s a promise.”

He can almost picture her smiling through her tears, “Sure, Helmet … whatever you say.”

* * *

_v. twin darkness’s intersect._

Seeing Hannah in such a compromising position shifted something in Clay, _forever_.

He found it reawakened his darker emotions that he’s kept confined and hidden. Especially when their classmates started **_in_** on Hannah. Clay walked her to class, _daily_ , not trusting Bryce (or any of his goons, for _that_ matter) not to antagonize her with looks and words intended to _unhinge_ her.

And whenever Clay wasn’t there to walk with Hannah, Jeff, Tony, or Alex did it for him.

Alex and Hannah weren’t best friends anymore, but ever since that night, Alex had gone out of his way to make their disintegrated relationship, up to her. Since they became official, Hannah had begun confiding in Clay a lot more, than she used to. And from what she had told him about Alex and the hot-or-not list, Clay understood **_why_** she didn’t have much to do with Alex, afterwards.

It has been two months since Bryce’s party and though kids didn’t believe Hannah at _first_ , it was the push necessary to help Jess believe Hannah when she came forward with the truth. Jess and Justin had broken-up soon after, and another set of charges were _slapped_ onto Bryce.

It had discredited Bryce’s version of events that Hannah _‘wanted him’_ , because unlike Hannah, Jess wasn’t known around school as a ‘ _slut’_ and was readily believed.

Either way, Clay made it his personal _mission_ to make absolutely sure that the rumors about Hannah were put to bed. He focused on what he _could_ fix (Hannah’s reputation) because there was one thing (between Hannah and him) that he **_couldn’t_** seem to fix, no matter how hard he tried – _their intimacy problems._

At first, they’d gone to each other’s house nearly every single day. He’d even snuck into her bedroom after their parents had gone to bed, on more than **_one_** occasion to cozy-up between her sheets. And, on top of that, they’d made-out, _countless_ times.

The pleasure would _build_ , the kisses would _heat_ , then, all of the sudden, the dominant memory of Bryce’s touch would **_force_** its way between them – and into Hannah’s central focus – and she’d descend into panic, then tears. More than once he’d wound up, holding her tight, kissing her scalp, while trying to lessen her trembling.

The bastard was _there_ … smiling at the misery he wrought – and it _angered_ , Clay, **_so_** fucking much.

It angered him most, because he wasn’t able to _fix_ it. He tried, **_constantly_** , even sought advice from Jeff on the delicate matter. He’d tried **_everything_** to help her – but nothing so far, has _worked_.

Jeff had told him to be gentle with her, _patient_ , and Clay was, but it was more than just their inability to have sex. It was the fact that sometimes, even _simple_ intimacies were apparently too much for her. Holding hands, she’d sometimes pull away and her eyes would go distant, or when he’d lean in for a kiss, sometimes she’d _flinch_ for a second, as though she feared he might physically **_hurt_** her, before relaxing into it. It was _little_ things … **_simple_** things … and it made Clay anxious to initiate **_any_** kind of touch with her.

The longer it went on the worse Clay has begun to feel. His touch has become like literal _poison_ to her. He’s begun to notice she hides her skin under looser fitting clothes, and seems to prefer when he **_doesn’t_** touch her at all. It was _gradual_ , but he’d stopped trying to make-out with her. They’ve basically reverted to how they interacted _before_ , with awkward sentences, and left-out details. He wonders if the trust has gone out of their relationship, or if its just **_him_** she finds repulsive. Maybe she’s fallen out of _love_ with him, that thought crosses his mind, and causes his heart to physically _ache_.

It’s almost Christmas, and he wonders if he should ask her over, ask to head over, or simply leave her be. Break started four days ago, and Christmas itself is still two days away, but they haven’t seen each other in those four days. It’s almost like she’s **_trying_** to tell him something … but he _refuses_ to take the hint.

He doesn’t, especially, _want_ to lose her, even if that means he has to live with the knowledge that Bryce Walker is the only one that’s ever _touched_ her. It angers him … because Hannah deserves **_better_** than that, but there isn’t anything he can do about it.

She won’t _let_ him.

He doesn’t care if the rest of their relationship is spent, with him, secretly (or maybe she knows) taking care of his erections in the bathroom, instead of forcing unwanted affections on her whenever they spend time together. He doesn’t blame Hannah for **_any_** of it.

He hasn’t spent the night in her bed, in _weeks_ , and he wonders what she’d do if he headed over there and climbed in. He cringes when he thinks of how she might wake up and spiral into a panic attack, before he quickly gives up the notion. And after a moment he _knows_ what he has to do – even though he doesn’t **_want_** to do it. He has to, for **_Hannah_**. Because after all, this was always about doing right by her – he doesn’t care about **_anything_** else.

He decides, _instead_ , to dial her cell.

It rings almost to the end, before she picks up.

“ _Clay_?” she hasn’t called him Helmet in weeks, either, sometime around when he stopped holding her hand or greeting her with kisses.

“Hannah, _hey_ …” he greets her awkwardly, wishing he could open with _‘I love you’_ but it no longer feels right to say, considering, the distancing between them.

“Hey,” she responds with equal awkwardness.

“Erm, Hannah, I just …” he pauses, because he suddenly realizes he doesn’t _want_ to have the conversation they **_need_** to have, over the phone,” … Do you think it would be okay if I head over for a bit?” he asks her, in a rush of words.

She pauses, makes a sound of uncertainty, causing his heart to drop into his stomach.

Afraid she might turn down his offer, he tries harder, “It wouldn’t be for very _long_ … I just … I want to talk to you about something … and _not_ on the phone …” he knows exactly how that sounds, but he doesn’t know any other way to go about this.

He hears her sigh, but she agrees, “Alright, Clay. _Twenty minutes?_ ” she concedes.

“Twenty minutes,” he repeats, then hangs up.

He used to say _‘Love you’_ before he would hang up the phone, and she’d make a little sound, then reply, _‘Sure you do,’_ then hang up. It wasn’t normal, but it had been _theirs_ … before.

He tries not to think about it too much, as he slides his cell into his pocket, and climbs out his window to avoid his meddling parents, downstairs.

They’d begun asking him obnoxious questions ever since Hannah’s rape. Practically _interrogating_ him about his every conceivable move so that by now, he’s half insane from it.

He makes it down to his bike and peddles over to her house. The twenty minutes have passed by the time he makes it over there. He hops off, steering his bike into the bushes, then taps on her window. She opens it for him, and he climbs in, clumsily. She grabs his arm to steady him, keeping him from toppling ungracefully onto her floor.

Despite himself, he _wants_ to lean into her touch – it’s the first time she’s _touched_ him in a week. The last time he can remember was one of the times he walked her to class, she’d actually slid her hand into his, while they walked. She’d been the one who initiated it, so he hadn’t felt _bad_ about savoring it, like he otherwise would have.

He wants to _whine_ when she releases his arm (assured that he’s steady and upright) in order to head over to her mattress to settle down. He lets the feeling roll off his skin, then joins her.

There’s still a lump in his stomach, and he plays with his fingers, nervously, while he tries to calm his thoughts enough to get out the words he knows _need_ to come out. He’s only just realized what he’s going to say, seconds before the words actually tumble out. He just hadn’t realized he was going to actually say them, up until that point …

“Hannah, I think we should _break up_ ,” he rushes out the words, needing to say them, even though it breaks his heart and goes against the promise he made to her two months ago, over the phone.

Her ocean-blue eyes widen slightly, before she jerks her head back down, refusing to meet his eyes again. He can see her hands immediately start to fidget, like his are, and her eyes fill with tears, her teeth sinking into her lower-lip.

“O-Okay,” she manages to croak out, brushing away a few startled tears that have fallen, while still refusing to look at him.

Clay feels _helpless_ , like his stomach is going to burst. He desperately wants to hold her – he wants to **_kiss_** her – but he doesn’t know how she’d _react_ to that. He figures she wouldn’t react well. He thought she’d be happy … not **_this_** upset … he finds himself baffled by her tears – by these emotions that seem to have _swarmed_ on her all at once.

He has to clamp his hands tightly together to prevent himself from reaching out for her in one way or another.

“D-Don’t cry, H-Hannah … I j-just mean end … end the _intimate_ side of things … I’m still your f-friend, I’ll **_always_** b-be that …” he’s faltering for words and they are coming out stupidly jumbled and all wrong … because they make her cry _harder_.

He thinks she might actually choke on her own tears.

“It’s f-fine, Clay … I-I’m _fine_ …” she dabs at her eyes with her sweater-sleeve, breathing through her tears.

He wipes away a few of his own tears and hates that he _can’t_ hold her. He hates that Bryce ruined the _good_ they might have had, before he laid a hand on her. He _even_ hates that it feels like Bryce is between them – **_again_** – in this moment that is supposed to be about them.

Hannah reaches up on the bed, and he notices a small, wrapped gift for the first time since he sat down on the bed. He’d overlooked it before – he overlooks a lot of things in his life.

“I f-figured you wouldn’t w-want to hang on Christmas … so I …” she closes her eyes and a few more tears fall, “… just h-here … M-Merry Christmas …” she mumbles, and his heart shatters.

She actually bought him something? He got her something, too … but he’d sided against bringing it with him, for this. Not to mention, he’d been debating about whether to give it to her, in the first place, considering the apparent downfall of their inherently **_doomed_** relationship.

Now, he just feels like a fucking _asshole_. **_Again_**.

He actually broke up with her just before Christmas, what the actual fuck _is_ he thinking?

All he’d been able to think about was the necessity to get it _over_ with. To not let this, linger any longer than it already has. But, instead, he’s probably inflicted **_more_** damage.

“Hannah—” he starts to say but she cuts him off.

“I t-told you, you’d get bored e-eventually … and I … I-I’m not girlfriend m-material … I know t-that … I see how your _parents’_ look at m-me … how _everyone_ l-looks at me …” she squeezes her eyes shut and tears roll down her cheeks.

Clay burns to wipe them away – to do **_something_** other than sit there with his fucking mouth hanging open – but he doesn’t know what the fuck _to_ do.

“It’s not … _that’s_ not true. Nothing’s changed for me, Hannah. I’ll **_always_** love you, it’s _just_ …” he breaks his own rule about touching her and reaches to swipe a tear off her cheek.

She jerks like he’s physically _shot_ her – or something _equally_ as barbaric – and his hand jumps back, as he realizes what he’s done. The knot in his stomach rises and he stands from her bed, casting aside his unopened present to put a little distance between them. Because Hannah’s still giving him this deer in the headlights look and it’s fucking **_killing_** him.

“It’s just, **_that_** , Hannah! I … I love you fine … I’m _in_ fucking love with you, but I can’t be **_with_** you … I can’t … I can’t _hold_ you or … or **_touch_** you without scaring you half to **_death_** and I can’t take that I fucking hurt you, just by _loving_ you! You’re the one that doesn’t _want_ this, Hannah … We’ve gone from holding hands and kissing to barely looking each other in the _eyes_ … You’re the one that’s been _pulling_ away, Hannah … and I understand, I’m not **_mad_** … I’m really fucking _not_ , Hannah. It’s just … knowing that I cause _you_ pain, it’s making me **_crazy_** , Hannah!” he’s starting to break down, he’s gripping his head because he feels like it might implode, then, he’s on his knees in front of her, pleading for her to just **_understand_**.

Hannah just watches him, solemnly, those same tears and sniffles _continuing_.

He peers up at her with tear-filled eyes, still on his knees before her. Everything has gotten so fucked-up between them and mottled, which he feels is his own fault – no, he **_knows_** its his own fucking fault. There’s a part of him that isn’t _right_ , he pretty much told her that when he asked her out – and it’s **_all_** gone downhill, ever since. The fairytale has turned into a living **_nightmare_** , because of him.

“You’re _not_ hurting me, Clay …” she finally responds, pointedly through her lessoning tears, “… at least … not with your _touch_ ,” she reaches out and cups his cheeks, and he leans into it.

He’s **_starved_** for touch by now, after all these weeks without more than a handhold or two.

He closes his eyes and almost keens for her, and she’s sliding down, off the side of her bed, to join him on the floor, _actively_ straddling him, all of the sudden. And she feels like bone and warmth all at once. He doesn’t _want_ to let her go.

“But I’m **_still_** going to lose you … I always was, no matter _what_ I do,” Hannah whispers and it’s a hot wisp against his ear, making him tingle, bone-deep.

“Why do you _say_ that?” he asks, “I thought you’d fallen out of _love_ with me … that’s why I tried to **_end_** us …”

Hannah grits her teeth and lowers her hands, letting her fingers graze his chest – and his skin sings, fluttering with the proof of her delicate _touch_.

She leans in and kisses him. It’s soft and sweet, her tongue grazes his bottom lip and he opens for her, lets her explore the inside of his mouth – lips, tongue, teeth – _everywhere_. He makes a shallow simpering noise, while his hands move to rest at her hips, gripping her, tight, to remind himself not to search her skin, he’s too afraid to startle her.

When she retracts, he’s _breathless_ , and already hard and throbbing against her crotch. He can feel the heat of her pressed to him under her dress skirt. It’s _distracting_.

“Hannah …” he breathes, his lips quiver against hers.

Hannah’s tears have wet his skin, he felt them fall while they’d kissed.

“I’m **_pregnant_** , Clay,” she admits.

His eyes flick open, skin crawls with instantaneous shock.

“ ** _What_**?” his mind is refusing to register what she’s said. It doesn’t feel _real_ – isn’t **_possible_** – and yet some of what’s transpired between them, suddenly makes sense. Her refusing his affections … pulling away from their relationship … **_everything_** …

“I couldn’t _tell_ you …” she continues, “… because … because it isn’t **_your_** problem, Clay …”

His mind is still reeling, attempting to process what this means. He’s _never_ touched her … they’ve never gone **_that_** far. Which means there is only one option. One _person_ that did this to her.

“Jesus, _fuck_ … You’re **_serious_**?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer, deep down. Bryce is like the fucking cockroach that just won’t _die_ between them. He’s _there_ – laughing at them – **_always_**.

Hannah tries to shift off his lap, but he draws her closer, takes the risk in keeping her there, astride his waist.

She nods in answer, conceding, to his attempt to keep her near.

Clay lets out a heavy sigh, then, releases her waist in order to cup her cheeks, instead. “It’s **_mine_** ,” he states, vehemently.

“What?” she searches his eyes impulsively.

“It’s **_my_** baby, Hannah,” he reiterates, adamantly.

“Clay you don’t have to—”

“That _bastard_ is not going to get a chance to ruin _anymore_ of your life, Hannah. If anyone asks, it’s **_ours_**. _Mine_ and **_yours_**. We slept together the night of Jessica’s party, and as often as we could, since.” He knew that neither of them had ever spoken about their failed attempt at intercourse that night. Only Jeff knew … and Jeff wouldn’t betray him.

“ _Clay_ …” her voice trailed off and more tears rolled down her cheeks.

“You think that I would leave you, because of _that_? Hannah … I love you. I don’t fucking care if he put a child in you – I’ll _kill_ him if you want me to –” he adds in, “but I swear to fucking God, that he isn’t going to hurt you again … and he won’t ever get a fucking _chance_ to hurt this child, either. ”

Clay knows that Hannah doesn’t believe in abortions, it was a topic that had come up at work. She’d spoken very strongly against it.

“You’re not g-going to leave me?” she questions, speechlessly.

“You should have just _told_ me, Hannah. This isn’t your fault. Of course, I’m not going to leave you. I’m not going _anywhere_ … I’ll tell your parents … I’ll tell _my_ parents, that it’s **_mine_**. That we’ve been having _sex_.”

“But we **_haven’t_** , Clay …” she frowns.

“Yeah, and who knows that but us? Hm?” he argues, lightly.

“The baby won’t look like you …” she tries again.

“No, it will look like **_you_** ,” Clay gives a quick kiss to her lips, “he shares your hair color, your eye color … no one has to know …” his mind is in a tailspin, trying to justify the lie.

Hannah shudders in his arms and he fears he might have taken it too far, while trying to convince her, but she’s nodding instead.

“O-Okay,” she agrees, finally.

“ _Okay_ ,” he confirms, initiating a second kiss.

It only lasts a moment, then they break apart, again.

“Why do you _want_ this, Clay? This isn’t really **_your_** problem … It’s _mine_ ,” she attempts to persuade him, after a moment’s hesitation.

Clay lowers his hands from her cheeks, rubbing the niche of her shoulders. “Because, Hannah, I care too much about you, to let _this_ change anything.”

Hannah nods, in defeat, “I’ve been pushing you away, because … because I didn’t want you to _regret_ anything … anything that _happened_ between us, once you found out. At first it really was too much, to … to be _intimate_ with you … but I haven’t felt scared in a while. I’ve just been … been _numb_ …” she admits.

His mouth goes dry and he shivers as her fingers trace the skin above his left peck, through his t-shirt.

“ _Numb_?” he asks, trying not to let his emotions kick up.

She nods. “Yeah, it’s like the pieces that _should_ feel … **_don’t_** … but when I’m with _you_ … sometimes they connect, and I feel **_everything_** again, like this _rush_. That’s _why_ I jump when you touch me, sometimes … it’s … it’s like you spark electricity that ebbs under my skin and makes me _hot_ with it. I’ve been _afraid_ to let it in, Clay …”

Clay feels the darkness in him **_ignite_**. He can feel it flutter just under the surface of his skin. It calls to him the _moment_ she begins to talk the way she is. So **_candidly_**. There’s this voice in his mind that tells him to take what he wants – to kiss and ravage – but he keeps it at bay. Like he’s been doing, since he first _met_ her.

He allows his hands to travel, though, lets his fingers delve over the curve at her waist, the swell of her breasts, _everywhere_. His inner-compulsions have begun to forgo all precautions he’s been taking lately.

She starts to squirm, releases a gasp, then speaks again, “Every time we _kiss_ and it’s gotten heated and you’ve been _close_ to losing control, I’ve felt it, Clay. You said there’s parts of you I don’t _know_ about, darker parts you don’t _talk_ about … I’ve felt the pull of them between us, Clay. It’s what’s given me pause …” she explains.

Maybe he should pretend he doesn’t know what she’s insinuating, about – anyone else would – but this is _Hannah_ , and she’s **_allowed_** to know his deepest secrets, if she wants to.

“I haven’t tapped into them in a long time, Hannah – I haven’t been _able_ to … I … I’ve tried to be cured of them,” he admits.

Hannah quivers, when he teases over a particularly sensitive spot on her mildly flushed skin. “I saw the darkest reflection in your eyes, _that_ night, Clay. When **_Bryce_** ...” Clay seethes, impulsively at the reminder of that night, which apparently, will now stay between them, indefinitely, thanks to what Bryce left behind in her …

“It stems from a place I don’t _think_ about, Hannah,” and he couldn’t explain – not even to himself – because he didn’t know exactly what _‘it’_ was. There were memories tied together in his past, that forged his darker side. Sometimes, his subconscious would remind him that he’s been this way since he was seven years old. Seven. _Why_ _seven?_

“I didn’t want to let it **_get_** so far, Clay. So far, that we’ll never come back from it. The _darkness_ … because last time you saw mine, you didn’t like it.”

Clay furrows his brows, when she states such a curious thing, “When do you _think_ I saw it, Hannah?” he runs his thumbs up her neck and she moans, timidly in her throat, her hands latching on to his shirt in bunches.

“When you read my _poem_ , Clay … in the Lost and Found,” she reveals, delicately.

He always wondered about that poem. He’d scoured over it, again and again, felt it feed the darkness in him, became obsessed with those blasted words about _‘lacy black underwear’_ and _‘falling.’_ He’d had his suspicions regarding who wrote it, but he’d never thought of Hannah. He’d thought of Skye, possibly, but _never_ a girl like Hannah.

“ ** _You_** wrote that poem?” he challenges, suddenly burning even more vividly for her.

Hannah nods, “Yes … and you said you’d _never_ hang out with a girl **_that_** dark and twisted … Remember _that_ , Clay?”

His insides twist and turn, while he manages to right his thoughts enough to lean in and kiss her.

“I remember, _everything_ , Hannah. I didn’t mean **_that_** , though,” he breathes. “I just wanted to _impress_ you. I didn’t know **_you’d_** wrote it.”

“Well, I did, and I … I’ve been _afraid_ if I let you in … If we go _that_ far … then I’ll become addicted to you, Helmet. And all the things that only _you_ are capable of making me feel … and then you’d leave … because of the _baby_ , because I’m not good enough for you, because you should be with a girl that can feel on her _own_ … that doesn’t have to be with you to chase the _numbness_ away …” her breath tickles his lips and he can barely contain himself. His blood is boiling, head pounding, and skin preening for touch – **_her_** touch.

“Fuck … Hannah …” he whispers in a tortured mewl. “I’m not going _anywhere_ , Baby, okay?” he prompts. “I’ll touch you all the time, _every_ day, I don’t want anyone else. **_Fuck_** , other girls,” he insists through his frustrations.

She smiles at him, and it’s the first time in a long time, that he’s actually seen her _authentically_ smile. “So that’s _it_ then? Your darkness becomes _my_ darkness and we fall into each other?” she inquires, “Is that what _you_ want, Helmet? Your own body tortures you and you want me to be your _outlet_ , right? What will _happen_ if you crack? If _all_ your darkness comes out at once?” she’s playing a dangerous game with his mind.

He doesn’t know how well equipped he is to handle a full-on assault of his senses, especially with Hannah so _near_. Her straddling his lap, cooing whispers into his ears, touching and goosing him everywhere she can …

His skin is buzzing, heart palpitating, and his breath turns shaky.

“Is that what **_you_** want? To trigger pieces of me you’ve _never_ seen?” his mind has begun to stall, and he surveys her dress with his eyes, wondering if it would tear if he were to use his hands to yank at the buttons, near the top. First, he’d remove her sweater, its baggy and in the way … “Do you _want_ me to use you?”

Her sapphire-blue eyes are _supercharged_ with emotions – he can see them all dancing there …

She scoots in closer and pushes her hips down, grinding hard against his tented denim jeans. “If we’re going to lie and say _you’re_ a father, shouldn’t we at least have _done_ it? Hm? I _know_ how you look at me, Clay. I’ve _seen_ your fantasies; they swirl in your eyes …” she teases.

“Hannah …” he growls, rubbing his fingers up and down her sides.

“ _Yes_ , Clay … _Helmet_ , I want you to **_use_** me …” she concedes, deviantly.

He can’t think about anything in this moment, except that he doesn’t want their first time to be on the _floor_ in her bedroom. Despite how she’s grinding against him, making him want to _take_ more than ever before, he summons the ability to hoist her up, and collides them both with the mattress of her bed.

He’s attacking her lips with kisses, while coaxing her sweater, _up_ , over her head. She helps, lifting her arms, detaching from the kiss as it sweeps to the side.

Clay can see through the pulse of eagerness, that her dress is **_beautiful_** on her. He decides, it’s too. _pretty_ a thing, to destroy, instead, he sheds it over her head, leaving her in just her bra and panties.

“Not wearing those _infamous_ lacy black panties, hm?” Clay taunts, taking in the pale blue color she’s currently donning.

Her cheeks shine with a reddish hue and she _immediately_ shakes her head back and forth. “Not tonight, you have to **_earn_** those panties, since you did say the girl wearing them is _‘one_ _dark human being_ ,’ heavily _disturbed_ in your opinion,” her eyes are teasing, lips curved up.

“Do I?” He leans down and sucks a hickie into her neck, making her squirm and gasp through a moan. “Maybe I’ll help you _ruin_ all your **_other_** panties, until you have no _choice_. Then you’ll _have_ to wear **_those_** ones for me?” Clay slides a hand down, brushing his index finger across the top of her mound, eagerly twirling his fingers over the small button at the top.

Hannah juts up her hips in a gasp, lifting her hands she clenches tight to his shirt, _again_ , “F-Fuck …” she whines, “Thought you’re _virginal_ …” she manages to gasp out.

“You _know_ I am, Hannah,” he admits between kisses to her clavicle, “Doesn’t mean I don’t know a thing or _two_ about stimulating girls. You think I’m _dark_ … fear my darkness, but also believe me **_so_** pure that I’ve never watched porn, huh? I have to keep my _darker_ curves at bay **_somehow_** …” he points out, though deep down, it’s _his_ turn to be embarrassed.

He doesn’t like to admit that he’s turned to porn to alleviate what stirs in him around her. But if it’s his devil-may-care side that **_she_** craves, deep down, then he’ll let that side run free, _for her_.

“I _do_ fear it, Clay. You lose yourself sometimes, like that day, after Jess’s party … you _melted_ down,” she hitches her breath, then squeals, as he finds a particular pattern he can draw against her clit, that significantly _furthers_ her pleasure.

“ _You_ go _hollow_ sometimes, Hannah. _Distant_ … and I see you check out. Should I fear _your_ darkness, **_too_** , then?” he works his index more profoundly against her clit, making her pivot her hips this way and that, eagerly.

“Y-You’re different than I once _believed_ you were, Clay …” she croons, arching her hips.

“And _you’re_ going to **_cum_** for me, aren’t you, Hannah? Just like when _Justin_ fingered you at Eisenhower Park,” it’s his **_jealousy_** that speaks. His darkest impulse that once snapped at her, after he heard those rumors. He’s never **_asked_** her if they were true … he’s always forced himself to _assume_ they’re not, but he’s so damn jealous of the possibility – that the words just _pour_ out.

Hannah squeezes her thighs around his hand, juts up her hips, permitting her eyes to darken, considerably. “Justin only _kissed_ me, he **_never_** fingered me,” she snaps, sending him a glare.

Clay burns with elation, from the knowledge that it’s just _him_ – that he’s the **_only_** boy that’s fingered her.

“But you’ve fingered _yourself_ , right? In your lacy black panties?” he’s teasing now, his eyes have lightened – the wave of ever-lingering darkness having subsided.

Her eyes lighten, too. Fingers begin to explore his front, up and down his shirt. “How do **_you_** relieve the pressure, Clay? Huh? After all, I’m not _always_ there for you to hump while you sleep. Do _you_ use **_your_** hand?”

He floods with color, remembering the morning after Jessica’s party. But more than that, there were a few nights he’s woken in a _similar_ fashion as her boyfriend, too. Even when he masturbates, he can’t **_always_** control himself …

He uses the bulk of his hips to splay her thighs, pushing himself between them, in order to keep her spread. “You’re **_going_** to cum for me,” he practically _demands_ it of her, now, while swirling his fingers harder. “You say only **_I_** can make you feel, Hannah? Then, I’m **_going_** to _make_ you feel …”

She’s making louder noises, now, bucking up her hips, pushing the bulk of her breast into his other hand, and trilling. It _doesn’t_ take long – a few seconds at most – and he feels her clit throb, pulsing while slick gushes into her panties.

It makes him _hot_ – and spurns his neediness.

It takes her a while to come down afterward, and Clay watches it all, lustfully, then kisses her temple, down to her neck, and chest.

“Take off your clothes … it’s not _fair_ you’re still so dressed …” she pants when she can finally grasp words again. She’s _frenzied_ now, in her eagerness, palming at his shirt and jeans.

He retracts his hand from where he’d gotten her off, in order to shed his shirt. Hannah undoes his jeans, helps them wiggle down his thighs. With just his plaid boxers remaining, it’s evident just _how_ excited she makes him.

His manhood is pointed, erect, and ready to drive into her with urgency. At the same time, he doesn’t **_want_** to be too rough, not their _first_ time …

“You _alright_ , Hannah?” his compassionate side pushes through, “You’re not gonna _panic_ , this time?” he eases her with a few kisses across her jawline.

She makes a noise, “I told you … It was never **_this_** I was afraid of …”

Clay snorts, “Just my _darkness_ , eh, Hannah?” he sighs.

“Not _even_ that. It was _addiction_ … **_fear_** of addiction to _you_ … to us – _this_ …” she clarifies.

Clay peels off her soaked panties, lets them fall, forgotten, onto the floor, bedside. Her bra and his boxers soon follow, leaving them _fully_ naked and pressed together.

He’d noticed before that her breasts spilled over the top of her bra cups, which was the only current _physical_ sign of her pregnancy. Her seemingly _enlarged_ breasts.

He plays with her nipples, revels in the noises she makes for him – the little _keens_ in her throat – the impatient _cants_ of her hips. He can tell she’s _not_ going to panic this time – she’s engulfed in pleasure; the pain (for the _moment_ ) no longer exists.

“And _are_ you, Hannah? **_Addicted_**?” he toys with her a bit, letting his cock, poise at her entrance, geared to take …

“Fuck … _Clay_ …” she finds his hair with her fingers and tugs at the short strands, “… Yes … okay? _Yes_! I’m already fucking _addicted_ to you … just please … **_please_** … I **_need_** you …!”

He grapples with the darkness and is _consumed_ by it. He plunges his hips forward, lets himself – _and_ _her_ – adjust to what it _feels_ like to join together.

It’s _a lot_.

It’s a rush of _pleasure_ and _emotion_. A melding of _ache_ and **_need_** – and he’s lusted for _so_ long, that he’s never been able to properly imagine (around the grip of his own hand) what it might feel like to be with a real, flesh and blood girl – but he never thought it would feel like **_this_**.

It’s tight and hot – and it feels like her walls might _literally_ squeeze the **_life_** out of his manhood.

He _wants_ to move, but he knows he’s not going to last very long once he **_does_**. He realizes in the rush of blood, and tang of need, that he wants to _savor_ her – not just whatever dark pieces of them intertwine and connect _through_ this, madness.

She moans loudly, and digs her nails into his back, marking him with her touch, levering her hips to give him the best angle to move, and whimpers in his ear, “ _Move_ , Clay … **_Please_** …”

His body obeys, even though his mind fights against the prospect, because he knows once he starts – he won’t be able to stop – and he **_doesn’t_**. His hips rut up, jerking into her, quavering her bed with every push and pull of motion.

Their sounds mingle together in the air, and his lips chase, then dance with hers. She opens to him, both _sexually_ and _spiritually_. He can feel the combination of their bodies and minds. _It’s next level_ – what they **_give_** each other. And it’s higher than Clay’s **_ever_** been.

More than he’s ever **_felt_** …

But it doesn’t last, because the build is too _much_ , and his personal threshold is too _low_. He’s too horny, **_too_** inexperienced, and it all crashes down at once.

“Hannah … c-can’t … **_Fuck_** …!” it’s the best he can manage in way of _warning_ , before he’s coming undone inside of her. His seed pools out, balls clench, and his eyes roll back as he crashes their lips back together, dwindling down his thrusts into minute little nudges of his hips, eager to thrust forward, while no longer willing to retreat back out. It feels too good to him, to be engulfed on all sides by her clenching walls. He makes sure that his pelvis nudges her clit with every grind and soon she’s going over the edge again, with him.

He can tell by the way her _thighs_ clench, tightening her legs around his waist, as she moans and bucks up, humping him from underneath. He anticipates her need, and slides a hand between their tightly pressed skin, stimulating her clit _more_ productively than her tiny humps were managing.

His heart flutters in his chest cavity and eyes focus on her, when their lips finally break apart.

“ _Clay_ …” she hums, and he rests his head on her chest, letting her play with his hair, feverishly.

“Hm?” he responds, _breathlessly_. It’s taken so much out of him to let his darkness take hold, while still _somehow_ managing to cling on to the _light_ , too.

“Promise you’re not going to _leave_ , Clay … I couldn’t **_bear_** it if you left … that would be the _worst_ thing …” she admits.

He lazily picks up his head, peering up at her through dusky eyes, “I _promise_ , Hannah,” he lifts her hand and kisses the tips of her fingers, sloppily, “Where would I _go_ to chase away my darkness, if not to **_you_**? Hm?”

She smiles, then, “You mean _feed_ your darkness?”

He quirks a brow, still feeling so sensitive and in need of cuddling in the aftermath of his satiation, “The darkness _won_ , Hannah … I **_tried_** to go slow …” he relents, his embarrassment shone on his cheeks.

“It was your _first_ time … **_our_** first time … you’ll learn to withstand longer,” she insists.

Clay’s still lingering somewhere in the afterglow of their love making and he nods.

“Maybe. Maybe _not_ … You have no idea what it feels like to _love_ you, Hannah,” he attempts to describe it, but doubts he comes close, “It’s like trying to **_breathe_** but finding yourself gasping on nothingness, instead. And it burns so much when I think about being _with_ you … and now that I’ve _been_ with you … I just feel _overheated_ and **_overburdened_** … and its too _much_ and not _enough_ … It’s a lot, Hannah. Loving you is **_a lot_** …”

“Is it _me_ , or the **_darkness_** that weighs you down?” she asks, pointedly.

And he can see that dark image, something black – _forbidden_ – that prods at him when he tries to recall why the darkness started. Why his depression – _his anxiety_ – originally began. The memory comes like a _flicker_ – his hands tight in fists – and then it’s _gone_ again.

He works his jaw, tries to remember – to see it again – but it’s gone away.

“I don’t know … I can’t remember where that piece of me _came_ from …” he tries to mull it over in his mind.

“Mine came from school … the _boys_ at school … their **_cruelties_** …” she shivers and he almost feels it in his bones, _with_ her.

“Mine’s been there since _childhood_ … since I can _remember_ …” he’s not lying, not expressly. But he knows something triggered it. **_Triggered_** his memories.

“Dark souls latch on to _other_ dark souls,” Hannah whispers softly, while peering through her lashes at him.

He cants his head, then smiles. “Maybe they do …”

“You tried to break up with me _two_ days before Christmas, that’s pretty fucked up … pretty **_dark_** , Clay …” she’s teasing, but it still stabs his heart.

“I’m a fucking _asshole_. Forgive me?” he croons, forcing a wider smile.

“ _Forgiven_ ,” she says simply, “But _only_ if you spend the night …”

“Done,” he answers immediately, winding their fingers together, as exhaustion begins to sink in. He’s barely able to keep his eyes open all of the sudden. “I’m too _tired_ to move anyway …” he mumbles, with a sigh, starting to nod off.

“Another _curse_ of the male darkness …” she laments.

He just chuckles, “Suppose so … _doesn’t_ _matter_ …”

It’s the last bit of nonsense he can _muster_ before he’s closed his eyes and drifted off into dreams of Hannah and him, with their someday, child.

* * *

_vi. the truth in the darkness & addictions._

Once before, Clay believed that he was _inseparable_ from Hannah. That they were interlinked the _second_ they became a couple, but he knows differently, now.

This is what it feels like to be inseparable.

He’d woken up the following morning, pressed naked to Hannah’s body, morning wood nudged at her thigh, with his arm, cast, around her waist. She’d woken him with _kisses_ – and touch that had burned like _fire_ on the surface of his skin.

Without any prompting, he’d rolled on top of her, and they’d made love, _sleepily_.

Clay didn’t have to stress about touching her anymore, because he knew the little jerks and gasps, she made, were fueled by the electrical impulses his touch caused, **_not_** her fear of Bryce **_fucking_** Walker.

That morning, he’d spent, learning the curves and arcs on her body. Penetrating her and listening to the _depth_ of her whines and keens. It had felt surreal to permit his darkest corners to run free, but also _terrifying_ , because he too, now found himself addicted.

They’d decided to open their Christmas presents, _together_ , on Christmas morning.

He’d snuck out of his house, late the night before, spent the night tangled in her bedsheets, only to have woken interlocked with her, _early_ in the morning, before either of their parents would have woken up.

That’s when they had their _own_ Christmas.

Both naked, she’d backed up into his front between his thighs, his own back against her headboard, and arms around her waist as she’d torn at the wrapping paper.

She’d shot him a quizzical look over her shoulder at first, while _curiously_ surveying the black-bound notebook.

“Open it,” he’d whispered in her ear, which had prompted her to do just that.

“ _Clay_ …” she’d been positively _speechless_ , staring down at the cracked open book, realizing that he’d filled every page to the brim with hand-drawn bunnies. _Cover to cover_.

He’d never told her _before_ that morning, that he was the one leaving her cartoon bunny drawings in her compliment bag, _daily_ , in Communications Class. It had been **_his_** secret, he’d always been too nervous to tell her, and once they were dating, he hadn’t _thought_ to tell her.

He’d spent hours sketching various depictions of bunnies over the white, blank, pages. Some of the bunnies were in clothes, others had simple bowties, he’d even written little compliments coming out of some of their mouths in a cartoon bubble: _‘You’re beautiful, Hannah,’ ‘Somebunny loves you, Hannah,’ ‘Merry Christmas, Hannah.’_ He’d drawn various bunnies on the final page, the very last one stated: _‘Be mine, forever, Hannah,’_ with a wink and a smile.

He’d wanted to get her something meaningful, and doubted he could find something like that in a store, so instead, he’d created it. With his own two hands.

He’d never seen Hannah breakdown like she did _that_ morning, before. She’d closed the notebook, then turned in his arms, and _kissed_ him – at first, she’d been soft and sweet, then it had _built_ into something needy and **_passionate_** – _demanding_ even.

And he can remember it as raw, skin meeting bones, and a blur of _urgency_ , mixed with **_want_**.

He’d lost himself in her and she in him. Sometime, afterward they’d both laid spent and tired, and she’d dozily given him his present. She’d been _shy_ about it, because she’d insisted it couldn’t top his own, but he’d smiled and reassured her.

“You **_know_** me, Hannah. Inside and out, now … it will be _perfect_.”

He’d torn the paper with tired movements, sitting up on her mattress to get a better look. She’d gifted him a signed copy of an issue of _‘Alien Killer Robots’_ which he doubted he could have topped if he tried.

“You _totally_ topped me! Okay, Hannah? How did you even _get_ this?” he’d asked, then stolen a kiss, pushing himself into her, desperate for her embrace.

She’d laughed and smiled, “I’ll _never_ reveal my sources,” she’d teased, then kissed him.

Sometime afterward, he’d reluctantly dressed himself and headed home for Christmas with his parents. Which had paled in comparison to Christmas **_morning_** , with Hannah.

The rest of break was a blur of Hannah and him, tangled parts, _together_ , growing more and more attached at the _arm_ – at the **_hip_** – all of their body parts were _inseparable_ , come to that.

New Years Eve, being **_no_** exception.

They’d both decided after Bryce’s party, that there would be no more parties, for _either_ of them. But tonight, they made an exception. Because it was **_Jeff’s_** house.

What could _possibly_ go wrong at Jeff’s house?

So far though, since arriving, Jess and Justin had gotten in a blow-out fight, over Bryce’s party, which somehow ended with the pair of them in a bedroom upstairs (and _apparently_ back together) which Clay refused to involve himself in, despite Hannah’s apparent _irritation_ over the whole ordeal, followed by a group of freshman getting drunk and trying to jump off the landing in the entryway of Jeff’s house. The whole night was _wild_.

Clay was just content to **_be_** there, with Hannah.

He’d made a show, so far, of kissing her whenever the opportunity presented itself. They’d _stayed_ conjoined at the hip, with hands and arms _rubbing_ all over one another. It was _nearly_ impossible to describe, but Clay honestly felt _euphoric_ , when he was alongside Hannah.

It felt _natural_ , but was actually the furthest thing from it, because the pair of them sort of _fed_ off each other. He acknowledged it in his mind, when they were _apart_ , but while they were together, it never really _occurred_ to him, just how **_twisted_** their relationship has grown to be.

She _speaks_ to his darkness, whispers in his _ear_ , then fiddles with the buttons on his shirt, or tousles his short strands of hair _until_ they stand on end, then bats her eyelashes at him, so **_innocently_**.

Like it’s _nothing_.

And she’s been doing it, **_again_** , tonight.

Picking fuzz from his shirt, pushing herself into his side with a nudge of her nose, she’s even made little _kisses_ at his neck, and teased her hand up under his shirt to get at the skin underneath.

She knows how _insanely_ worked-up it makes him when she teases, which is **_why_** she does it. It _feeds_ the darkness, eats away at his control, and makes the blood pump through him with impeccable redundancy.

The countdown to midnight is _minutes_ away, and here she is, perched on his lap on the right-hand side of one of the living room couches, curled up, while absently running her finger back and forth across his chest, through his shirt.

He moves her closer, tracing circles into her back, _absently_ , with an index finger, and their eyes meet.

He lifts his hand, cups her cheek, and leans in for her a kiss, but she lifts her hand to prevent him, before he can so much as _graze_ her lips with his own.

“Bad luck to kiss **_before_** the countdown …” she croons, with this wild spark in her sapphire-blue eyes.

He’s half-insane by this point and he shakes his head at her. “You keep it up and I’ll do **_more_** than kiss you,” he breathes against her pout.

“Is that a _promise_ , Clay Jenson?” she panders.

“Yeah, it fucking **_is_** ,” he replies.

She smirks, then brushes her nose, ever-so-gently against his, then retracts. “Is _this_ how you’re going to act at **_school_** from now on, Clay? Hm? You just going to _ravage_ me between classes? I don’t think my reputation can **_survive_** it …”

Clay steadies himself by latching on to her hips with his hands, occupying them. “I think _any_ trace of a _passable_ reputation I built back up for you is shot to hell, after tonight, anyway, don’t _you_ think? You’ve been **_so_** horny, after all, touching me … _kissing_ me … making me fucking **_want_** you …” he feels more at ease with letting his darker pieces talk, now. He never would have spoken to her that way, **_before_** , but everything changed that night … when he tried to break up with her.

 ** _Everything_**.

“Maybe I don’t _care_ what they think anymore. As long as I have **_you_** …” she admits, with a shrug.

“You _do_ , you **_have_** me … Fuck, Hannah … Didn’t we make fun of Jess and Justin for this at **_her_** party? Hm?” he finds solace in her neckline, kissing, impulsively there, at the skin.

“I think we’ve _earned_ this. Making out on the _couch_ , don’t you, **_Helmet_**?” she inquires, playfully, while grazing his chest with her fingers.

He laughs. “I think you’ve gone through enough _shit_ to have earned the right to do **_whatever_** you fucking want, Hannah. _Truly_.”

The countdown starts and they look to the flat-screen television with glee, joining in on the countdown with everyone else.

When the clock hits midnight, they cheer along with those gathered, then Hannah leans in for a midnight kiss. Clay returns it with _fervor_ , hot around the collar, and fully erect for her in his jeans. He can feel her grind against the rigid tent he’s making – and he growls feeling, suddenly, **_rabid_** – _horny_.

She breaks the kiss when he starts to fondle her through her clothes, needier by the second, “Not _here_ , Clay … Can’t go _that_ far, **_here_** …” she parts her lips and releases a little cry when his hand fondles one of her overtly sensitive breasts.

“ _Where_ then, Hannah? _Hm_? I _need_ you …” he admits, through a half-pant of exertion.

“It’s our _first_ time in a brand-new year, what about your house? We’ve never done it on **_your_** bed,” she coaxes with this little trill in her tone.

Clay’s always been the one to sneak into her bedroom, being that hers isn’t on the top floor, like his happens to be. “We’d have to go up the _stairs_ …” he grunts, as she jerks her hips down against him, again, building his need.

“Then, we’ll walk up the stairs,” she giggles, “Think you can _manage_ that, Helmet? Hm? Think your legs will _carry_ you that far?”

He loathes that she is teasing him right _fucking_ now! He is fit to burst with so much bundled-up tension that he can **_barely_** withstand it.

Even more alarming … and it isn’t **_right_** … but he can feel this strange panicky feeling in the pit of his stomach. It’s been there since the night began, he hadn’t **_said_** anything, because he didn’t want Hannah to worry, but he _feels_ it there, again, in the back of his mind.

It’s like a _prickle_ … _barely_ there … but **_there_**.

He sighs and pushes back a flash from his hidden, _bleaker_ edges. He never wants to let Hannah down. She deserves _everything_ she wants – no matter what it is, _that_ she wants.

“You think they _won’t_?” he banters with her, brushes his nose at her neck’s curve, soberly.

His hand travels between them, while he peers around making absolutely certain that no one is watching them, before he teases her through her panties. Rubbing, _grazing_ just over the panel ….

“ _Helmet_!” she keens with an arch of her back, mouth falling open, he’s quick to kiss her, _concealing_ her moans for him.

He stops touching her, then, and _retracts_ from the kiss.

“You’ll come home with me, then, Hannah. Fuck it,” he shrugs.

“ _Fuck_ _everything_ ,” she agrees, with a deviant smile.

She stands, clearing her throat, straitening her dress skirt, then extends her hand to him.

He takes it with a smile, then follows her right out of Jeff’s house.

The whole walk to his house, he has to keep the _dark_ thoughts at bay. The little what-if’s in his mind that _argue_ with him about preserving Hannah’s dignity, back there. His mind screams that he should have fucked her right there on the _couch_ (who would have cared or seen?) and he has to shake them away. **_Again_**. Because _whether_ anyone would have seen is **_hardly_** the point …

The longer he lets himself linger between his _good_ and _bad_ side, the harder it is to remind himself of **_who_** he actually _is_.

Is he Clay, the sweet _sensitive_ boy that **_loves_** Hannah? Or is he Clay, the fucked-up _possessive_ boy that just _wants_ Hannah addicted to **_only_** him?

He doesn’t think he _can_ answer that anymore.

He feels like he’s **_both_** of those conflicting personas … both of those _boys_ , all the time.

And it’s only been two weeks since he let it all in … two weeks and he’s already irreparably _damaged_ in the head.

He tells himself it’s going to be fine, that Hannah _likes_ to connect to his darkness … that she won’t _care_ about any of it … but another piece of him _insists_ that Hannah will grow to distrust him if he lets her see _too_ much of the dark … if he lets her see how **_far_** his darkness actually goes …

He’s _not_ like Bryce, or Justin. He could **_never_** be like them … but he’s not _good_ like she thinks, either. He’s always _portrayed_ himself that way, but his mind goes to some particularly _cracked_ and _fucked_ places … It **_always_** has.

It stems from being so _good_ all the time. So, put together – he’s **_none_** of those things.

He’s ten seconds from being _insane_ – from going **_crazy_** – all the time.

He loses time thinking about all of this. Maybe he went into his head, maybe he just _zoned_ out like he sometimes does at school, thinking about Hannah … either way, he has to fight like _hell_ to keep his thoughts away from the true purpose of his inner darkness. _Why_ it came … and why it will **_never_** leave him.

 _“Helmet?”_ he hears Hannah’s voice and it’s like she’s spoken from a distance.

Yet, she’s standing right beside him, on his front porch.

He has to blink, clench the hand that _isn’t_ holding hers, into a tight fist, before he can snap himself out of it enough to look at her.

 _“Hm?”_ he makes the sound of questioning, his eyes training on hers.

“It’s like you were somewhere _else_ for a second, Clay,” Hannah’s eyes are broaching on concern and Clay shrugs his shoulders, absently.

“That’s what you _like_ about me … isn’t it, Hannah? When I’m _somewhere_ **_else_**?” he doesn’t really think before he speaks, he just _talks_.

The words are _scary_ – at least to **_him_**. He feels his spine ripple with emotion and shakes his head in a _second_ attempt to clear it.

He _almost_ blacked out – almost went **_away_** , completely. He wonders what would happen … if he let the darkness he can’t _always_ understand, drive for a bit.

That’s what this part of him _wants_ ; to **_drive_**.

Hannah moves to stand in front of him, rather than at his side, then lifts her hands, grazing his temples, before settling to cup his cheeks.

“You mean … when our darkness’s _collide_?” she tilts her head slightly, surveying him with her _trademark_ Hannah Baker smile.

Clay shudders at that. “Is _that_ what you try to bring out when you work me up? My **_darkness?_** ” the words just flow out of him. It’s like he anticipates what she’s going to say and then responds accordingly. It’s eerie, even to him.

“Mmm … _Maybe_ ,” she shrugs, still carrying that smile, “has it been working?”

He feels _feral_ all of the sudden – like he just **_needs_** to have her. He doesn’t care about the rest – he **_wants_** her.

Clay steals another kiss, leans forward, forces her to open to him by pushing his tongue past the threshold of her lips. She gasps and he hoists her off her feet. She immediately coils her legs around his waist, to allow him to carry her.

“You’re _about_ to find out,” Clay manages to whisper, as he focuses on opening his front door, and carrying her up the stairs to his bedroom.

Thankfully his parents are asleep, already, not that he would have cared or stopped had they been up. All he can think about is how much he **_needs_** right now, and Hannah has done that to him.

It’s too _much_ – it’s **_all_** too much.

He lowers her onto his bed, and he’s lost his ability to be gentle, which appears to be what Hannah wants, tonight. Her fingers are anything but tame as she practically _tears_ his shirt overhead, then goes for his jeans in quick succession, helping him rip those down his thighs along with his boxers in one fluid movement.

He’s ripping her dress before he can stop himself. Letting the fabric come apart in his hands, under his fingers while he seeks out the _suppleness_ of her body. Tilts down his head to suck at her nipples, bites at her neck, collarbone, chest – **_everywhere_** he can manage – before he’s spread her thighs and plunged into her sex.

“Fuck! **_Cla_ y _!_** ” she whines in a high-pitched sound, but he can tell by her hip movements, that she’s not in any real distress.

That might not have even mattered to his darker half and that is the most _disconcerting_ of all, to Clay. That some part of him wouldn’t even react – _or_ **_care_** – if Hannah _really_ wanted him to stop …

“Dark enough for you, Hannah? _Raw_ enough?” he almost growls as he pushes into her, hard enough to _whack_ the bed against the wall. He thanks God that his parents are **_both_** heavy sleepers, or else they might have come in.

“Clay!” she keens for him, obviously engulfed by the scope of her pleasure, but he’s in a mixture of agony and pleasure … the two _coincide_ , walking hand in hand.

Clay is beginning to understand that now. Maybe he’s _always_ known it, but tried to hide from it. Either way, it’s **_him_**. It’s who he **_is_** …

That’s when the _flashes_ start. Those wicked images of his past that he’s kept hidden all these years. He’s never understood the boughs of depression, the _waves_ of anxiety that seem to come upon him like a shot. He’s always just had to deal with it. The _imperfections_ that exist somewhere within his general make-up.

He’s not **_normal_** …

He was a virgin until junior year, of course that’s not normal …

And it’s **_in_** the act itself … he realizes it _suddenly_.

The reason **_why_** …

He remembers the whispers, most, in the darkness. The forceful tone in the voice that told him it would all be over soon. _Soon_ – but it’s **_never_** over, not really.

“ _This_ what you want? Hm? You _like_ it when I lose control?” he doesn’t know why he’s saying the words – and in the moment, doesn’t care if he’s _scaring_ her by saying them.

It just **_feels_** right. He pushes his hips, harder, realizing the harder he is – _the rougher_ – the more the **_memories_** return to him.

Maybe he shouldn’t want to know the reason behind his own darkest impulses … but he feels he _needs_ to. He _deserves_ to know …

He sees himself, dark shadows taunting him on the walls of his grandparents’ farmhouse. But he’s not the **_only_** one that’s stayed there, every summer. It’s his **_cousin_**. The eldest of his cousins, older that him by _ten_ _years_ that started it. The _pain_ – the **_touches_**. Maybe his body _wasn’t_ virginal that first time he was with Hannah … maybe it’s like **_Hannah’s_**. Defiled by the _darkest_ of dark acts.

That’s _where_ the pain starts. _When_ the darkness began to emerge anew … When he witnessed Bryce’s _defilement_ of Hannah – _her innocence_ – same as was done to his _own_.

He doesn’t know when he hits that peak, inside Hannah, but he feels her walls clamp down on his prick. Feels _himself_ cry out for her – **_into_** _her_ … until tears are pouring down his cheeks.

When had he begun to **_cry?_**

He can’t _remember_ … he _must_ have blacked out.

Because he sees the bite marks, he made on her shoulder, but he can’t _recall_ sinking in his teeth. He sees her eyes are teary, but she’s not **_mad_** at him … maybe she _senses_ his pain. Maybe she sees it and he’s not **_entirely_** bare for her.

Either way, Clay wants to _scream_ at himself. He wants to scream at the little boy that **_didn’t_** fight back. That laid there and _allowed_ his older cousin, Peter, to climb on top of him and _take_ what he wanted from his flesh. He allowed his mind to create a _hole_ where this darker personality is _stored_. All of his anxiety, depression, self-deprecations, begin and end _there_.

“Who’s Peter?” Hannah says the name and it rips and _shreds_ at his heart. He can’t be _inside_ of her when she says that name … but he **_is_** …

He fucking **_is_** inside of her … and she’s saying it like it’s **_just_** a name …

Clay pulls himself off of her, clenching his eyes shut, as he tries to _trace_ the patterns of his memory **_back_** to the source.

He hits a _wall_ in the darkness … feels the burden of his _own_ pain crashing in on him …

Rubbing at his eyes he tries to fight back the tears, but they just _keep_ coming. They won’t **_stop_**.

They turn into _sobs_ and Hannah’s arms curl around his waist, drawing him in close, until he’s curled in a ball, alongside of her.

He _wants_ to scream … but he doesn’t want his **_parents_** to wake up.

“ _Clay_ …” she whispers his name and it brings him **_back_** like a _prayer_.

He leans in and kisses her lips, steals from her, the same way _everything_ was stolen from him.

But it’s not enough to _console_ him … nothing will **_ever_** be enough for that. He feels _broken_ all over again. Shattered and _filthy_. He **_is_** filthy … no wonder Hannah took so _long_ to be his girl … He wouldn’t want to be with himself if the roles were _reversed_ …

“W-Where did you _hear_ that name?” he asks her, after a moment.

It’s the first thing he can manage _through_ the tears and blind hysterics.

Hannah’s soothing him with her fingers, kissing him with her lips, wherever she can, before she manages to speak through her own blinding tears. “ _You_ said it, Clay … Just _now_ … and … once or twice … in your _sleep_ ,” she sighs, smoothing her fingers through his hair, “Who is _he_?”

Clay grips her waist, squeezes until she makes a noise, then loosens his grip. “My _cousin_ …”

Hannah traces her fingers down his spine, touches the nodules, timidly.

“ _Why_ did you say _his_ name, Helmet?” she urges him to explain and he doesn’t _want_ to … but he does, _anyway_.

He’s seen Hannah at her _most_ vulnerable. He knows her _darkest_ shames, so why shouldn’t she know _his?_

“He’s the _source_ of my darkness, Hannah. The thing **_you_** brought out of me …” he closes his eyes and breathes through the panic in his chest. It’s _tight_ , but he manages to soothe himself a _bit_. Hannah is like a lever, she’s pulling him out of the bad place and _into_ the good one, again.

Maybe she’s light and dark – maybe a person can be _both_ … maybe _he_ is both …

Clay prays to God that he can fight his way _back_ into the light with her. He doesn’t _want_ to stay in this endless dark …

“The **_reason_** … I don’t understand …” she insists, while pressing sordid kisses to his chest and neck, still being cautiously _motherly_ towards him – still **_soothing_**.

“Like _Bryce_ is your reason … like every fucked-up guy at our fucking _school_ is **_your_** reason … Peter’s _mine_ … Peter fucked me up, Hannah …” he’s trying to explain, trying to guide himself through this … and it’s **_all_** a jumbled fucking mess in his head, right now.

**_All of it._ **

Hannah’s eyes go dark with understanding all of the sudden. He can see how she _wavers_ and breaks under the _weight_ of what he’s telling her.

“Clay … you don’t mean _he_ …” she doesn’t finish that realization.

 _“Raped me?”_ Clay finishes it for her. _Uses_ that ugly fucking word. “Started, when I was _seven_. Stopped, when I was **_ten_** …”

Hannah draws herself onto his lap and pushes her face into his neck, tears streaming down her cheeks. And he can **_feel_** the heat of her – her attempt to _connect_ and **_heal_** him, simultaneously.

“Fuck … Helmet …” she breathes, “Why didn’t you _tell_ me? I wouldn’t have pushed for _that_ part of you if I knew … If I knew how **_painful_** it was for you …”

Clay kisses her forehead, pushes his nose to her cheek, then lays back, drawing her down to his bedsheets with him. “I _didn’t_ know …” he admits, “Not until _just_ now … and it’s not that part of me that causes pain … it’s the **_memories_** …”

She lays sprawled on top of him, searching his eyes, tenderly, “ _Oh_ …”

Clay nods, then sighs heavily. “Part of me … its _always_ been like this, Hannah … Dark … twisted … I’ve always _wanted_ things I don’t _talk_ about. And part of me … part of me wants to take over sometimes, _do_ all the things I know _aren’t_ fucking right … and I don’t know if I can keep that side at bay, forever. And I don’t **_want_** to hurt you, Hannah … I _never_ want to hurt you …”

She swallows, shaking her head. “What are you _saying?_ ”

He pushes his lips against hers, brushes her nipples with one of his hands, and listens to the sounds she makes from _pleasure_.

“I’m _saying_ , this _isn’t_ healthy … _us_ … _this_ … _our_ **_addiction_** …” he pants, through the fervent kisses.

Hannah uses her hands to travel through his hair, tugging and pulling on the strands, hastily.

“I _won’t_ give you up, Clay. Not for _anything_. **_Ever_** ,” Hannah persists, “You _still_ wanted me, even though Bryce **_ruined_** me …”

“You’re _not_ ruined, Hannah,” Clay inserts, immediately.

“I _am_ , though, Clay. I’m carrying my **_rapist’s_** baby inside of me. I’m _beyond_ ruined,” she perceives.

He growls low in his throat, tempers a hand over her still flat, belly. “It’s **_my_** baby, now, Hannah. **_Our_** baby …”

“Well then … we need to tell our _parents_ … don’t you think? Or are you planning to wait until I’m _showing_? Or better yet, in **_labor_**?” she’s teasing him, but he doesn’t mind.

The darkness is starting to ebb away, and the tears have _gone_ with it. He’d grateful to have shifted away from the **_conversation_** about Peter. His cousin hasn’t visited their grandparents over the summer in _years_. He hasn’t even seen Peter since he was ten … since the **_last_** time. It’s in the _past_ , but it created this piece of him that will **_always_** be twisted and he knows it.

And now, _Hannah_ knows it, too.

But she _hasn’t_ recoiled – has only drawn in **_closer_**.

“We’ll tell them, _tomorrow_ ,” Clay promises.

“Invite mine over here and do it?” she kisses at his fingers, amusedly.

“Whatever _you_ want, Hannah,” he kisses at her neck, “As long as you promise to _never_ tell them about Peter. You’ll **_keep_** my secret?” he breathes.

“I’ll take it to my _grave_ ,” Hannah reassures him.

Chills rush up his spine, and he nods his head. “ _Good_ …”

“And you’ve _never_ hurt me, Clay. I think … I think part of me, **_enjoys_** the darkness inside of you. Like just now, when you lost control … it felt _good_ …” she plays her fingers over his chest, dancing across the sweaty skin.

He clamps his jaw, swallowing thickly, before he responds, “It’s _another_ personality, Hannah … it **_has_** to be, okay? I blacked out … I don’t even … I don’t even _remember_ anything after we fell onto my bed …” he feels ashamed to actually admit such a heinous thing to her. Not _recalling_ the act? Not recalling how he _bit_ her skin? How he **_fucked_** her?

Hannah lifts a brow. “So, this side of you would never _fuck_ me, then? This side would only make **_love_** to me? You’d never go _rough_ … never on **_purpose?_** Maybe because this side of you is the one that decorated this room … nerds are _supposed_ to be soft and gentle … wouldn’t fit with the image if you _fucked_ , rather than _made love_ … am I **_close?_** ” she asks, then cants her head to one side.

His breathing picks up as her words go on and on. When she halts, his heart is pattering, unevenly. Maybe he _is_ a nerd, maybe it’s just that his own dad has _always_ been gentle with his mom. Maybe that’s _why_ he’s like this. Why he _thinks_ that way.

He doesn’t exactly know for certain. He just knows that _this_ is who he is.

“Guys aren’t _supposed_ to hurt the girl they love, Hannah …” he says it, but its like he’s reciting from a book of _rules_ – of **_etiquette_**. He doesn’t like the way his stomach twists and churns, prepared to reject such a ridiculous notion.

Hannah laughs. “Not even if she _wants_ to be hurt? Not even if … if it helps her _feel_ something besides the numbness?” she pries.

Clay breathes heavily, “I thought you said my _touch_ did that … cured your numbness …” he elaborates.

Hannah’s still smiling. “It _does_. But just now … the _heights_ we went to, together … Fuck … Clay … it was **_carnal_**. Ridiculously _addictive_ … and high … so fucking high …” she attempts to explain it, but she falls short.

The high _was_ good … he distinctly _remembers_ his orgasm. It’s still making him _tingle_ , even now.

But it’s the _blackness_ he fears. He fears what _harm_ his counterpart can cause, if unleashed. After all, that piece of him was created by a _terrified_ little boy – by very _raw_ and **_real_** pain mixed with _terror_ – by the act of agonized flesh and tired bones in a bid to escape the horror and _reality_ of it all.

“Hannah … I don’t **_want_** you to hurt … because of _me_ …” he tries again, to reiterate how bad things could be if he isn’t in control – if he lets this darker-half of him, _drive_ …

“I _don’t_ … I hurt because of **_Bryce_** ,” she spits the name like it’s _poison_ on her tongue. The way she says it, makes him _shiver_.

Clay traces the bitemark on her shoulder. “I don’t want to hurt the _baby_ …” he explains.

Hannah draws him down until she’s lying flat on her back, both legs splayed open, him nestled between. One of her hands falls down between their bodies, _slides_ over his flaccid manhood, and begins to stroke him. Slow at first, then faster and faster … until he’s **_pulsing_** with lust, _brimming_ with heat … it’s **_so_** much … so **_much_** pleasure …

“You _won’t_ , Clay. No part of you would **_ever_** do worse to me than I can handle. I trust you. _Completely_. So, won’t you **_humor_** me, Helmet?” she toys with him, gently. “We can _chase_ those bad memories _away_ … together,” she insists.

He can’t _help_ it; he lowers his lips to hers – and **_succumbs_**.

* * *

_vii. the ending ties._

He’d _never_ felt so nervous as the following afternoon when he’d stood in front of his parents – and hers – and declared **_himself_** Hannah’s baby daddy.

The outrage from _both_ sides, hit them _both_ like a car crash.

He can still remember how his mother insisted that _he_ should have known better. Hadn’t he heard of **_condoms_**? Wasn’t the school _educating_ them properly? Didn’t he have _some_ kind of commonsense? Didn’t _she?_

He was meant to be the _logical_ one. He acted like he was, anyway.

So why was he _so_ naive?

His father had sat down with him at one point, during freshman year, talked about the _necessity_ of condoms and if nothing else, buying a girl the morning after pill. He’d heard **_all_** the lectures, but clearly hadn’t learned from any of them.

Luckily, no one (on _either_ side) put two and two together, because they were both very _convincing_ with their stories. They’d been having sex all along, Bryce _never_ finished inside of her (at least that was their version of it) and _couldn’t_ be the father.

They argued and let the _chips_ fall as they would.

Hannah’s parents threatened to keep **_him_** away from Hannah, while Clay’s parents insisted that this was their mistake, and should have to learn from it, by **_being_** together.

Clay’s parents _ultimately_ won out.

His parents had been meaning to make the garage into a place for him to have his own space, outside of the house, for the past year, and now, now that reality had come to fruition. They renovated it into a sort of one-room apartment, which Hannah and him were _moved_ into, in preparation for the coming baby.

By March, it was _all_ prepared for them to move in.

And also, by that time, Hannah had begun to show. Her pregnancy was _beyond_ evident, and the other kids whispered behind her back, but Clay noticed that gossip barely seemed to _effect_ Hannah, anymore. All of her effort was geared towards preparations for their forthcoming child, and everything else, seemed to be background noise to Hannah.

Maybe, it was also their newfound _solace_ in one another. The past _four_ _months_ leading into _April_ was spent in absolute bliss, because they drowned out the bad, by delving into their shared darkness. Clay would allow his hidden side to emerge when Hannah asked him to. Lately, it was more and more profusely, that she asked.

It was a good thing that Hannah had something _better_ to focus on, because Bryce and his fancy lawyers had found a way to get him probation and practically nothing for both rapes brought against him in court.

Hannah had cried that day, but after a _night_ of them, curled together, his soul and hers connecting, she no _longer_ seemed as bothered.

Maybe what they have is a _curse_ or a **_cure_** – Clay hasn’t decided yet. All he knows is that, they keep each other’s secrets. _Whatever_ _they are._ And they latch on to each other, like **_crazy_** , whenever those secrets become a burden.

 _Tonight_ , is no exception.

Clay barely remembers falling asleep, but he _must_ have.

School and work at The Crestmont, had become exhausting, but he had to keep his job in order to build up some savings. Hannah worked at her parents store most days, it was _easiest_ for her, considering her now, six-month-pregnant belly, to account for.

Clay hadn’t even stripped out of his work uniform, before he’d crashed on the mattress, curled up _alone_ , on the sheets.

Hannah usually didn’t come home until her parents’ store closed, sometimes around ten at night. Clay had worked a four-hour shift, today, so he’d been home _hours_ before her.

He rouses, though, when he feels her hands at his shoulders, tracing across his neck, then _ruffling_ through his hair.

He makes a noise, and seeks her lips, _instinctively_ , using one of his hands to feel for the bump of her baby, which is now pressed to his middle because she’s nestled close.

“ _Hannah_ …” he hums out, softly. “Didn’t _mean_ to fall asleep …” he mumbles.

She giggles, unperturbed. “Was it a _good_ sleep, Helmet?”

“Mmmm … **_nightmares_** …” he admits, and there were.

He hadn’t _been_ thrashing when she woke him, but he was nearly primed to start. Ever since he awakened those terrible memories, they have proceeded to **_haunt_** him. Haunt his _sleep_ – make shadows and plenty of imagery for him to despise and most of all, fear in his **_dreams_**.

Hannah’s fingers trace down the front of his vest, wiggling into his trousers to wrap around his length.

“ ** _F-Fuck!_** ” he groans when she dips her head to kiss at the nape of his neck.

“It’s _okay_ , Helmet … We’ll chase it all away, _together_ …” she vows, with a little quiver in her tone.

He moans and pushes his hips up into her hand. His mind is still in _that_ place, between _wakefulness_ and _sleep_. Sometimes, he prefers to sleep, but right now, he wants to be _with_ Hannah – with their **_unborn_** baby.

That is the only _possible_ way for the nightmares to pass.

Though, to be fair, he doesn’t know if she means the _nightmares_ or his **_darkness_** … because both have kicked up in her brief absence since they said their _goodbyes_ at school. The addiction is worse now, then when they started these _unhealthy_ trysts four months ago.

Like _most_ addictions, he’s becoming **_increasingly_** dependent on her. He’s distinctly aware that there will come a time when it will feel like _torture_ to be away from her. Right now, even work is starting to grate on him, because it keeps him _separate_ from her.

He brushes his hand over her baby bump, cascading his thumb across the skin under her shirt.

“You’ve been _crying_ …” Clay mentions, when he seeks her eyes and notices the red rims under both.

“Doesn’t matter … _You’ll_ make it all go away, Helmet …” she says it with this reassuring tone, that makes his heart skitter in his chest.

He feels the baby kick, it does that more and more often now. It recognizes the _voice_ of its father.

“ _Will I?_ ” he plays coy, despite how she’s _still_ stroking him, turning him on, and making him **_frenzied_** with need.

She nods, a few tears collectively fall down her cheeks, and she sniffles.

He leans in and kisses them away, before finding his own _personal_ niche in her lips, kissing them, softly. “Why are you crying, _Baby?_ ” he asks her, protectively.

Hannah sniffles, retracting her hand from his jeans.

“It’s a _boy_ , Clay … I’m going to have a **_boy_** …” her voice cracks.

He furrows his brows, slow to the mark. “Aren’t you _happy_ , Hannah? Did you want a _girl?_ ” they hadn’t discussed much about the gender they were hoping for. Even names hadn’t _really_ come up, even though the due date was creeping in **_closer_**.

He’d forgotten that she’d even **_had_** an appointment to go find out the gender, today. The days were muddled together in Clay’s mind. He went to school, then work, completed his homework if he had _any_ , then spent his evenings with her. It **_all_** took its toll on him – especially his memory.

“It’s _not_ …” she sniffles and shakes her head, “Clay … what if he’s like his _real_ father … what if …” she doesn’t finish that sentiment and he feels his heart lurch in his chest.

Leaning in he kisses her lips, pushing his hands against her belly. “We’ll make sure he **_isn’t_** , okay? Hannah … we’ll love him _properly_ , and he’ll never know anything _about_ Bryce _or_ his afflictions, the darkness _ends_ with us … It **_has_** to end with us …”

None of it is _right_. Clay knows what they do together isn’t right.

At least, their coping mechanisms aren’t _normal_ , even though they _feel_ natural.

“And _will_ it, Clay …? **_End_** with us …?” she’s pleading with her eyes for him to reassure her – and he doesn’t know any other way, how, than _this_.

He’s on top of her in a second, unfastening his jeans in a hurry, then splaying her thighs to push himself into her, **_narrowly_** shoving aside her panties in his haste to _join_ with her.

She gasps, clutching at his shoulders, arching her hips up in the air. “No one will _hurt_ him like ** _I_** was hurt … like _you_ were … he’s going to be _good_ … like **_you_** , Hannah …” Clay rasps. “These depravities begin and end **_here_** , Hannah, with **_us_** ,” he confirms.

It’s _rough_ and pleasurable – but also **_quick_**. He doesn’t have much staying power when it comes to Hannah. It’s the dip of her waist and the way she smiles at him when she knows he’s on the _verge_ of losing all sanity – **_all control_** – while on top of her, that sends him over that edge. He once believed he’d better his staying abilities with time, but not anymore. With Hannah, it’s _always_ going to be quick … whether he goes _slow_ and _sensual_ , or **_hard_** and **_fast_**.

It’s **_inevitable_**.

He’s simply **_too_** attracted to her.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to fuck her like this, with the ever-developing bump of their child, between them, but he manages it, _somehow_.

He keeps on his uniform, because he _knows_ she likes it. It turns her on to see him in the uniform they _both_ used to wear. He doesn’t really know _why_ , but he doesn’t especially mind it. He’s used to losing control while they both still have some semblance of clothes on. It’s usually too hot and heated, when the _need_ sets in, for them to find the time _necessary_ to strip out of whatever clothes they’re still wearing in the moment.

“Clay! Fuck!” she gasps, while he plants pertinent little kisses to her cheek and neck. Anywhere he _can_ , really.

“You’re my _soulmate_ , Hannah. Whatever darkness I have was **_bound_** to feed yours, and yours was bound to _awaken_ mine …” he believes that _now_. He doesn’t **_understand_** it, fully, doesn’t really ever plan to, but he’s okay with letting the wild parts of him, loose.

He hasn’t been _afraid_ that his darkness and blackouts will hurt her, for a _while_ now. He doesn’t know _when_ that fear went away … Maybe around when they moved into his garage-flat. Maybe before that. Either way, it’s how they _comfort_ one another. It’s become a second **_language_** for them – their **_bodies_**.

He doesn’t feel _whole_ if he goes a single day without finding his home in Hannah Baker.

She’s the thing that keeps him _sane_ – keeps him from **_cracking_**.

And he does the **_same_** for her.

Lowering his hand, he circles her clit, lets her push and _thrust_ against his fingers, until her walls are clamping down around his prick. He _hisses_ and **_spills_** in her, letting his eyes close and his body still. He keeps himself _propped_ on his spare hand, making certain not to crush her or the baby.

He’s panting and spent on top of her. It feels like his **_heart_** might explode and he lays down next to her, on their mattress, while he somehow manages to catch his breathe.

She’s quiet for a long time _afterwards_ , but she isn’t crying anymore. The tears have dwindled away and he feels a _mild_ sense of relief. With a gentle hand, he cups her cheek, brushes the skin, and forces a smile.

“Hannah, no matter _what_ , I fucking love you. Do you _know_ that?” he whispers. “And I will fucking love our _son_ , too.”

Hannah’s eyes drift to meet his. “I _know_ you love me, Clay … but you don’t _have_ to love **_my_** son … he’s the spawn of a _monster_ , after all.”

Clay’s eyes darken, skin shades scarlet. “He’s _my_ son, Hannah. He’ll always **_be_** mine. **_Just_** mine, okay? That _bastard_ doesn’t _get_ to have him … doesn’t get to **_claim_** him, and I’ll kill him before he _ever_ gets a chance to so much as **_attempt_** to.”

Hannah’s eyes stay locked on his, and he sees a tremor of fear in them, that quickly fades to understanding. “You _sure?_ There’s still _time_ for you to back out …”

“I’m **_positive_** , Hannah. You’re my _family_. And I’ll **_marry_** you. I’ll do _whatever_ if it means you’ll believe me. But I’m _dead_ serious, Hannah,” he reiterates.

“You’ll **_marry_** me?” Hannah’s eyes light up, and he can see the romantic side of her. The piece that still _believes_ in happily ever after, the same kind her **_parents_** have.

“You have to _ask?_ ” Clay lightens a bit, then laughs. “Jesus, Fuck, Hannah! What _more_ can I do to prove that you _already_ **_own_** half my soul? Huh? I would be fucking _lost_ without you, okay? A fucking _mess_ …” he kisses her nose, then her lips, playfully.

“I want _all_ of you, Clay. I will **_always_** want all of you …” she breathes. “It won’t be enough until … until we have _forever_ …”

“ _Forever?”_ he repeats, questioningly.

“Yes, _forever_. Where we’re bound together, the baby is here, and we’re **_still_** this happy …” she dreams, idly, her eyes changing to this hopeful glint that makes his heart soar.

He cracks a wide smile. “Alright, Hannah Baker. We’ll make a _forever_ , then. We’ll have our son, a _marriage_ , everything. And forever will be **_whatever_** we make of it. I **_promise_**.”

She turns to lay down on her side, then seals a kiss to his lips. “For now, I just want to _sleep_ ,” she admits sheepishly and snuggles in close to him, until he can feel her all the way up his front.

“Okay, Baby. We’ll _sleep_ ,” he agrees, no longer so afraid that his nightmares will reside, once he does. He’s **_happiest_** when he’s with Hannah.

The nightmares are _never_ as bad, when he’s not sleeping alone, but with **_her_**.

His hand finds the curve of her belly and lets himself nod off, to the _strong_ kicks of **_their_** son’s feet.

* * *


End file.
